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REJECTED    ADDRESSES 


OTHER     POEMS 


JAMES    SMITH    AND    HORACE    SMITH, 


PORTRAITS  AND  A  BIOG-RAPHICAL   SKETCH. 


EDITED     BY 

EPBS       SAROENT. 


NEW    YORK: 
DERBY     &     J^CIvSOJ^. 

II  D  C  C  C  L  X  . 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856 

BY   EPES   SARGENT, 

In  the  Clerk's  OfQce  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  MassacljHSettfl. 


PREFACE. 


'/• 


yh/^ 


The  present  is  the  first  American  edition  of  the  col- 
lected poems  of  Horace  Smith.  Many  of  them  have 
been  printed  in  our  newspapers  and  magazines,  and 
not  a  few  are  favorites  familiar  to  all  true  lovers  of 
poetry.  No  one  can  read  them  without  admitting  the 
just  claim  of  their  author  to  a  high  place  among  the 
sons  of  song.  His  humorous  pieces,  too,  are  neat  and 
lively  versifications  of  anecdotes  that  usually  carry  with 
them  a  point  if  not  a  moral. 

While  as  a  poet  Horace  Smith  was  incomparably 
superior  to  his  brother,  the  latter,  in  Lis  vers  de  societe, 
may  claim  perhaps  equal  merit.  Spencer  and  Praed 
were  not  more  felicitous  in  their  poetry  of  fashion  than 
James  Smith.  The  topics  show  the  man  and  his 
associations,  and  his  poems  are  so  many  finished  daguer- 
reotypes of  London  society  in  the  first  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  In  this  light  they  will  always  be 
interesting  and  amusing — and  may  bo  admitted  into  col- 
lections of  British  poetry,  from  which  similar  sketches 
by  Swift  and  Prior,  of  a  grosser  period,  ought  to  be 
excluded.  It  is  no  small  virtue  of  the  popular  writers 
whoso  poems  are  contained  in  our  present  volume,  that, 
though  wits  and  satirists,  they  are  always  gentlemen. 

M554001 


IV  PREFACE. 

It  is  to  the  Rejected  Addresses  that  these  ingenious 
brothers  are  mainly  indebted  for  their  celebrity ;  and 
this  work  still  retains  its  popularity  undiminished. 
It  is  admitted  to  be  in  all  respects  unique,  and  perfect 
after  its  fashion.  Indeed,  it  well  deserves  the  high  praise 
bestowed  on  it  by  the  most  fastidious,  if  not  the  most 
able  critic  of  his  day — the  critic  who  had  sat  in  judg- 
ment on  nearly  all  the  authors  imitated  in  this  remark- 
able volume.  The  literary  world  had  never  before 
witnessed  such  an  exhibition  of  the  peculiar  talent, 
which  could  be  paralleled  only  by  the  marvellous  execu- 
tion of  the  mocking-bird.  Our  reprint  of  this  work  is 
from  the  twenty-third  London  edition,  and  the  notes  in- 
closed in  brackets  are  from  the  pen,  we  believe,  of  Mr. 
Peter  Cunningham. 

The  prefatory  memoir  is  compiled  from  a  variety  of 
sources,  and  claims  no  credit  beyond  that  of  judicious 
condensation  and  arrangement  of  materials.  For  so 
much  of  it  as  relates  to  James  Smith  we  have  re- 
lied generally  upon  the  biographical  sketch  prefixed  to 
his  collected  miscellanies.  A  series  of  papers  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazifie  have  also  been  freely  used 
without  special  acknowledgment.  They  are  entitled  A 
Greybeard' s  Gossip,  and  are  reminiscences  of  his  lit- 
erary contemporaries,  by  Horace  Smith.  Other 
sources  of  information  are  mentioned  in  the  text. 


TABLE     OF    CONTENTS 


fjanits  bn  f 0ntte  SmitI]. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


PAOB 


Prefetory  Stanzas 3 

Hymn  to  tho  Flowers, 7 

Address  to  a  Mummy, 9 

Address  to  tho  Orange-treo  at  Versailles, 12 

Sicilian  Arethusa, 15 

Tlie  Shriek  of  Prometheus, 16 

The  Birth  of  the  Invisible, 22 

Tho  Sanctuary, 26 

The  Poppy, 23 

The  Murderer's  Confession, 80 

The  Contrast, 85 

The  Bard's  Song  to  his  Daughter, 87 

The  Flower  that  feels  not  Spring, 83 

Moral  Ruins, 40 

Moral  Alchemy, 43 

Moral  Cosmetics, 46 

The  Old  Man's  Pasan, 47 

Answer  to  an  Old  Man's  Ptean, 50 

Invocation, 52 

The  Mother's  Mistake, 54 

The  Sun's  Eclipse, 66 

Lachrymose  Writers, 53 

"Why  arc  they  shut  ? 61 

The  Libelled  Benefactor, C3 

Dirge  for  a  Living  Poet, 65 

Campbell's  Funeral, 67 

The  Life  and  Death : 

Tho  Life, 69 

The  Death, 71 

Hope's  Yearnings, 72 

To  a  Log  of  "Wood  upon  the  Fire, 74 

Unpossessed  Possessions, 77 

To  the  Furze  Bush, 78 

The  First  of  March 79 


PAGB 

Invocation  to  the  Cuckoo, 81 

Man, 83 

Sporting  witliout  a  License, 84 

Tlie  Quarrel  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity, 86 

Winter, 90 

Cholera  Morbus, 91 

Eecantation, 93 

Death, 95 

The  Poet  among  the  Trees, 93 

To  the  Ladies  of  England,    . 101 

Night  Song, 102 

The  Song  Vision, 103 

The  Poet's  Winter  Song  to  his  Wife, 105 

Song  to  Fanny, 106 

Song  to  Fanny, 106 

The  Birthday  of  Spring, lOT 

An  Old  Man's  Aspiration, 109 

Gipsies, 110 

Life 112 

To  a  Lady, 113 

The  Charms  of  Life, 115 

A  Hint  to  Cynics, 116 

Music, 116 

The  Bard's  Inscription  in  his  Daughter's  Album, 117 

Stanzas, US 

A  Hint  to  Farmers, 119 

Disappointment, 121 

The  Dying  Poet's  Farewell, 122 

Sonnets 124 

Morning, 124 

To  the  Setting  Sun, 125 

On  the  Statue  of  a  Piping  Faun, 125 

On  a  Stupendous  Leg  of  Granite, 126 

On  a  Greenhouse, 12T 

Written  in  the  Porch  of  Binstead  Church,  Isle  of  Wight, 12T 

The  World, 123 

To  a  Eose, 1-3 

On  an  Ancient  Lance, 129 

The  Kightingale, 129 

Sunset, ^30 

Charade, 130 

Charade, 132 

Charade, 133 

Address  to  the  Alabaster  Sarcophagus,  lately  deposited  in  the  British  Museum,  134 

HUM0E0U3. 

The  Culprit  and  the  Judge, 139 

Sonnet  to  my  Own  Nose, 1^0 

The  Milkmaid  and  the  Banker, l'*l 

The  Farmer's  Wife  and  the  Gascon, 142 

The  Auctioneer  and  the  Lawyer, 145 

The  Gouty  Merchant  and  the  Stranger, 143 


CONTENTS,  VU 


llje  Fat  Actor  and  tho  Rustic, 149 

The  Bank  Clerk  and  the  Stable  Keepers, 151 

Piron  and  the  Judge  of  the  Tolice, 154 

Tho  Fanner  and  the  Counsellor, 157 

The  Collegian  and  the  Porter, 153 

The  Mayor  of  Miroblais, 161 

Eabflais  and  tho  Lampreys, 164 

The  Biter  Bit, 165 

Tho  Parson  at  fault, 163 

Blindmans  Buff, 169 

The  Poet  and  the  Alchemist, 172 

The  Astronomical  Alderman, 175 

South  Down  Mutton, 176 

Evening:  An  Elegy, 179 

Patent  Brown  Stout, 180 

York  Kidney  Potatoes, 182 

The  Jester  condemned  to  Death, 134 

Laus  Atramenti, 185 

The  Two  Bracelets, 187 

Marshal  Saxe  and  his  Physician, 189 

Stanzas  to  Punchinello, 192 

The  Pleasant  Tete-a-tete, 194 

An  Easy  Remedy, 196 

Madame  Talleyrand  and  the  Traveller, 198 

Projects  and  Companies, 200 

Elegy, 203 

Pitt's  Bon  Mot 204 

Hobbs  and  Dobbs, 206 

Monsieur  Le  Brun, 203 

St.  George's  Penitentiary, 211 

Diamond  Cut  Diamond, 214 


f  nnus  Ijg  lames  .gmitj!. 

LONDON  LYRICS. 

Christmas  out  of  Town, 221 

St.  James's  Park, 223 

The  Upas  in  Marybone  lane, 225 

Stage  "Wedlock, 226 

Doctor  Gall, 223 

Table  Talk, 231 

The  Poet  of  Fashion 2-37 

Next  Door  Neighbors, 233 

The  Image  Boy 241 

The  Lees  and  the  Lawsons, 244 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Country  Commissions, 246 

The  Mammoth, 248 

Sonnets  In  imitation  of  Shakspearc, 250 


VIU  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Phoebe,  or  my  Grandmother  West, 251 

Time  and  Love, 252 

Proverbs, 253 

The  Year  Twenty-Six, 254 

The  Tablet  of  Truth, 257 

Club  Law, 259 

The  Swiss  Cottage, 262 

Five  Hundred  a  Year, 263 

Chigwell 266 

Chigwell  Pvevisited, 269 

The  Emperor  Alexander, 272 

The  Gretna  Green  Blacksmith, 274 

Matrimonial  Duet, 275 

Owen  of  Lanark, 276 

The  Triton  of  the  Minnows, 278 

The  Haunch  of  Venison, 281 

Ode  to  Sentiment, 2S3 


Written  by 

I.  Loyal  Effusion.    By  W.  T.  F Horace.  299 

II.  The  Baby's  Debut,    By  W.  "W James.  302 

III.  An  Address  without  a  Phoenix.    By  S.  T.  P Horace.  306 

(    James 

IV.  Cui  Bono  ?    By  Lord  B •<      and     308 

(  Horace. 

V.  Hampshire  Farmer's  Address.    By  "W.  0. James.  318 

VI.  The  Living  Lustres.    By  T.  M Horace.  318 

VII.  The  Rebuilding.    Ky  P.  S James.  321 

VIIL  Drury's  Dirge.    By  Laura  Matilda Horace.  329 

IX.  A  Tale  of  Drury  Lane.    By  W.  S Horace.  332 

X.  Johnson's  Ghost Horace.  339 

XI.  The  Beautiful  Incendiary.    By  the  Hon.  W.  S Horace.  344 

Xlt.  Fire  and  Ale.    By  M.  G.  L Horace.  348 

XIII.  Playhouse  Musings.    By  S.  T.  C Jam^.  351 

XIV.  Drury  Lane  Hustings James.  355 

XV.  Architectural  Atoms.     By  Dr.  B Horace.  358 

XVI.  Theatrical  Alarm-Bell.    By  Editor  of  M.  P Jarms.  365 

XVII.  The  Theatre.     By  the  Pev.  G.  C J(Xmes.  369 

XVIII.  Macbeth  Travestie.     By  Momus  Medlar Jam^.  375 

XIX.  Stranger  Travestie.     By  Ditto James.  379 

XX.  George  Barnwell  Travestie.     By  Ditto James.  382 

XXI.  Punch's  Apotheosis.    By  T.  II Horace.  385 

NOTES  TO  KEJECTED  ADDEESSES, 899 


BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOm. 


The  subjects  of  the  following  Memoir  were  the  sons  of  Robert 
Smith,  an  eminent  legal  practitioner  of  London,  who  held  for  many 
years  the  office  of  Solicitor  to  the  Ordnance.  James  Smith  was 
born  on  the  10th  of  February,  1775 ;  and  Horace  Smith  on  the 
31st  of  December,  1779.  The  elder  son  was  educated  by  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Burford  at  Chigwell,  in  Essex,  was  articled  to  his 
father  on  leaving  school,  and  finally  succeeded  to  his  professional 
business  and  his  appointment  of  Solicitor  to  the  Ordnance. 
Horace  received  the  same  education  as  liis  brother,  became  a 
member  of  the  Stock  Exchange  in  London,  acquired  a  fortune, 
and  retired  with  his  family  to  Brighton.  For  nearly  half  a  cen- 
tury they  were  both  distinguished  in  London  society  for  their 
social  accompUshments,  and  their  clever  contributions  to  the 
literature  of  the  period. 

Horace  Smith  entered  active  life  as  a  clerk  in  a  merchant's 
counting-house,  where  he  was  more  attentive  to  light  hterature 
and  the  drama  than  to  bills  of  exchange,  invoices,  and  charter- 
parties.  His  first  hterary  effiart  was  a  short  poem  lamenting  the 
decay  of  public  taste  in  theatrical  exhibitions,  and  the  encourage- 
ment given  to  dumb  shows,  to  the  neglect  of  such  sterling  pro- 
ductions as  the  West-Indian  and  The  Jew;  to  the  author  of 
which  comedies  he  dedicated  his  effusion,  and  forwarded  it  to  him 
by  the  post,  with  his  own  name  and  address.  The  communica- 
tion brought  to  the  counting-house  an  old  gentleman  of  distin- 
guished appearance,  whose  large  and  profusely  powdered  head 
was  flanked  with  cannon  curls,  and  endorsed  with  a  substantial 
pig-tail ;  liis  corbeau-colored  suit  was  of  antique  cut,  and  he  bore 
a  golden-headed  cane.  This  apparition  inquired  for  Mr.  Smith. 
"  "We  have  two  of  that  name,"  replied  the  nearest  clerk,  "which 
of  them  do  you  want  ?"  "  I  want  Mr.  Smith,  the  poet."  The 
clerk  was  astounded  at  such  a  demand,  and  the  grave  master 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR. 

petulantly  exclaimed,  "  We  have  no  poet  here,  sir" — and  resumed 
his  writing.  The  poor  culprit,  unable  to  deny  his  identity, 
jumped  from  his  tail  stool,  and  hurried  into  the  ante-room 
the  unwelcome  visitor,  who  announced  himself  as  Mr.  Cumber- 
land. 

Such  Avas  the  introduction  of  Horace  Smith  to  the  celebrated 
dramatist.  It  led  to  an  acquaintance  and  intimacy  with  the  two 
brothers.  The  first  literary  work  in  which  the  young  poets 
assisted  with  their  veteran  friend,  was  the  Pic  Nic  newspaper, 
established  in  1802  by  Colonel  GreviUe,  for  the  double  purpose 
of  vindicating  certain  amateur  theatricals  which  he  had  given  in 
conjunction  with  M.  Texier,  and  of  checking  the  scandalous  per- 
sonalities with  which  some  of  the  newspapers  were  assailing  the 
aristocracy.  The  other  principal  contributors  were  Sir  James 
Bland  Burgess,  Monsieur  Peltier,  Mr.  Croker,  Mr.  J.  C.  Herries, 
Mr.  Bedford,  and  Mr.  Combe;  all  of  them  writing  gratuitously 
except  the  last-named  gentleman,  who  was  the  editor,  and  who 
had  long  been  Uving  in  the  rules  of  the  King's  Bench.  Of  the 
party  thus  engaged  in  the  conduct  of  an  obscure  and  short-lived 
periodical,  several  became  afterwards  eminent.  Herries,  then  a 
clerk  in  the  Treasury,  rose  to  be  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer. 
Mr.  Croker,  after  attaining  the  important  post  of  Secretary  of  the 
Admiralty,  was  a  clever  contributor  to  the  Quarterly  Review. 
Peltier  was  made  notorious  by  his  trial  for  a  libel  on  the  First 
Consul  Bonaparte,  in  which  Mackintosh  gained  his  early  forensic 
laurels. 

Colonel  GreviUe  was  a  gay  and  fasliionable  man,  a  modification 
of  Sir  Harry  Wildair,  and  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  the  Pic 
Nic,  with  gratmtous  contributors,  and  an  editor  within  the  rules, 
struggled  with  a  sickly  and  precarious  existence.  So  the  colonel 
dismissed  the  whole  corps  editorial  at  one  of  their  weekly  meet- 
ings, with  the  announcement  that  he  had  engaged  a  young  Irish- 
man of  surpassing  talent,  who  would  undertake  for  a  sum  equal 
to  Combe's  honorarium,  to  get  up  and  edit  the  whole  paper. 
Saying  this,  he  left  the  room,  and  returned  with  Mr.  John  Wilson 
Croker,  who,  being  thus  "  trotted  out,"  was  bent  upon  showing 
his  paces  to  the  best  advantage.  His  conversational  powers 
were  even  then  of  a  very  high  order,  and  he  exliibited  them 
with  all  the  ardor  and  copiousness  of  an  aspiring  Hibernian. 
Cumberland,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  preserved  a  sullen  silence 


BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR.  XI 

until  he  had  lefl  the  room.  "  Well,"  said  Greville,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  my  new  friend  ?  He  talks  a  good  deal,  I  must  confess, 
but  he  tallvs  well"  "5a7/of  that  is  true,"  replied  the  dramatist, 
and  departed  in  dudgeon. 

The  young  Irishman  did  not  revive  the  Pic  N'ic,  and  it  was 
soon  merged  in  the  Cabinet,  to  wliich  Rogers  and  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  were  occasional  contributors,  with  the  old  corps  of  the 
Pic  Nic  reinstated.  But  the  Cabinet  disappeared  in  1803,  and 
in  1809  was  pubhshed  the  first  number  of  the  London  Review, 
"  conducted  by  Richard  Cumberland."  In  this  work  the  names 
of  the  authors  were  prefixed  to  their  articles,  a  novelty  that  did 
not  take  with  the  public.  The  brothers  Smith  lent  theu-  aid  to 
their  friend,  but  his  journal  survived  only  to  the  second  number. 

At  the  instance  of  its  projector,  they  also  wrote  several  of  the 
prefaces  to  a  new  edition  of  BelTs  British  TJieatre,  pubhshed 
about  this  time  under  the  sanction  of  Mr.  Cumberland's  name. 
The  distinguished  editor,  who  honoured  both  parties  with  his 
friendsliip,  was  pleased  in  having  them  for  his  coadjutors ;  and 
they  were  naturally  flattered  hi  bemg  thought  worthy  of  his  pref- 
erence. 

Mr.  Cumberland  died  in  1811,  and  when  Horace  Smith  last  saw 
him  he  Avas  much  altered  and  attenuated,  liis  white  hair  hanging 
over  his  ears  in  thin  flakes,  his  figure  stooping,  his  countenance 
haggard.  It  was  during  the  early  period  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Cumberland  that  Horace  first  tried  his  hand  at  a  romance, 
producing  one,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  times,  full  of  monks, 
monsters,  trap-doors,  and  spectres.  This  he  submitted  to  his 
friend,  and  it  was  returned  with  an  unfavourable  verdict.  The 
author  immediately  burned  it.  "  You  showed  talent,  my  dear 
boy,"  said  the  dramatist,  "  in  writing  that  work,  but  you  have 
evinced  much  more  in  committing  it  to  the  flames." 

From  the  year  1807  to  1810,  James  Smith  was  a  constant  con- 
tributor to  the  Monthly  Mirror,  then  the  property  of  Thomas  Hill, 
Esq.,  at  whose  cottage,  at  Sydenham,  himself  and  his  brother 
were  frequent  guests.  This  was  a  favourite  resort  of  the  poets, 
wits,  artists,  and  actors  of  the  time ;  and  their  merry-makings 
brought  together  many  whose  names  will  live  long  in  the  litera- 
ture of  England.  A  symposium  at  Hill's  was  quite  as  memorable 
an  affair  as  a  breakfast  at  Rogers's,  though  an  entirely  diflfereut 
style  of  entertainment. 


Xii  BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR. 

At  the  Sydenham  gatherings  the  brothers  Smith  used  to  recite 
a  dialogue  written  by  themselves,  a  farrago  of  nonsense,  abound- 
ing in  solecisms  and  absurdities,  yet  so  far  approximating  to  a 
sensible  discourse  as  to  mislead  a  careless  or  obtuse  listener.  As 
it  was  gravely  deUvered,  the  interlocutors  appeared  to  be  deeply 
interested,  and  at  times  excited;  and  as  "true  no-meaning 
puzzles  more  than  wit,"  it  became  difficult  to  discover  that  the 
whole  was  a  piece  of  solemn  Tom-foolery.  Hill's  habitual  g-uests 
were  too  sharp-witted  to  be  themselves  entrapped,  but  the  hoax 
was  reserved  for  the  embarrassment  or  amusement  of  the  occa- 
sional visitors. 

In  the  Monthly  Mirror  originally  appeared  the  poetical  imita- 
tions entitled  Horace  in  London,  which  were  subsequently  pub- 
hshed  in  a  single  volume  by  Mr.  MiUer,  who  purchased  half  the 
copyright  of  the  Rejected  Addresses.  Both  brothers  contributed 
to  those  parodies  of  the  Roman  bard ;  but  the  larger  portion,  dis- 
tinguished by  the  letter  J.,  was  from  the  pen  of  James.  Possess- 
ing but  a  fugitive  interest,  though  sometimes  the  Latin  text  was 
ingeniously  adapted  to  the  characters  and  occurrences  of  the 
passing  hour,  these  papers,  in  their  collected  form,  had  but  a 
limited  sale.  They  were  re-published  in  this  country  on  their 
original  appearance,  but  the  allusions  in  them  have  become 
obscure,  and  their  merit  would  hardly  justify  their  reproduction 
with  the  notes  necessary  to  make  them  generally  understood. 

Most  of  the  particulars  connected  with  the  first  appearance  of 
the  Rejected  Addresses  wUl  be  found  in  the  preface  to  the 
eighteenth  edition.  This  Uttle  volume  appeared  on  the  re-open- 
ing of  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  October,  1812,  the  idea 
having  been  casually  started  by  ^Mr.  Ward,  secretary  to  the 
theatre,  exactly  six  weeks  before  the  first  night  of  performance. 
Eagerly  adopting  the  suggestion,  James  and  his  brother  lost  not 
a  moment  in  carrying  it  into  execution.  It  was  arranged  what 
authors  they  should  respectively  imitate.  Horace  left  London  ou 
a  visit  to  Cheltenham,  executed  his  portion  of  the  task,  and 
returned  to  town  a  few  days  before  the  opening,  when  each  sub- 
mitted his  papers  to  the  other,  for  any  omissions  or  improvements 
that  might  appear  requisite.  These,  however,  seldom  exceeded 
verbal  alterations,  or  the  addition  of  a  few  lines.  James  furnished 
the  imitations  of  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Coleridge,  Crabbe,  Cobbett, 
and  numbers  14,  16,  18,  19,  and  20.    He  supplied  also  the  first 


BIOORAPniCAL    JIEMOIR.  xiu 

Stanza  to  No.  4,  Cui  Bono?  By  Lord  B.  Of  all  the  rest  of  the 
original  work  Horace  was  the  author.  Of  the  eighteenth  edition 
(Murray's)  James  wrote  the  notes,  and  liis  brother  the  preface. 
The  copyright,  which  had  been  originally  offered  to  Mr.  Murray 
for  twenty  pounds,  was  purchased  by  that  gentleman,  in  1819 
after  the  sixteenth  edition,  for  £131.  Several  editions  have  been 
since  published  in  England  and  the  United  States.  Its  success 
has  induced  numerous  imitations  on  both  sides  of  the  water — 
which  only  serve  to  show  the  great  difficulty  of  the  work  of  the 
brothers  Smith,  and  the  rareness  of  the  pecuhar  talent 
to  its  accomplishment. 

Soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  Rejected  Addresses,  the  authors 
were  invited  to  meet  a  large  dinner-party  at  the  house  of  Sir 
Humphrey  and  Lady  Davy.  During  a  momentary  silence,  a 
deaf  old  lady  who  had  not  caught  the  names,  or  did  not  recog- 
nize the  Smiths  among  their  numerous  family,  called  out  to  the 
hostess  from  the  further  end  of  the  table,  "  Lady  Davy!  I'm  told 
the  writers  of  the  Rejected  Addresses  have  brought  out  a  new 
work  called  Horace  in  London,  which  is  uncommonly  stupid." 

The  company  immediately  began  to  talk  very  loudly  and  mer- 
rily to  drown  this  ill-timed  sally,  while  the  hostess  leaned  for- 
ward to  James  Smith,  and  exclaimed,  "  Poor  old  lady !  I  hope 
you'll  excuse  her.  I  have  no  doubt  she  was  told  that  the  work 
in  question  was  uncommonly  clever,  not  stupid.  But  her  ears 
arc  always  playing  at  cross  purposes."  "  Yes,  yes,  I  understand 
it  all,"  was  the  reply.  "  She  hears  upon  the  same  principle  as 
the  Irish  echo,  wliich,  if  you  shout  '  How  d'ye  do,  Pat  ?'  replies 
'  Indeed,  I'm  mighty  bad.'  And  so  is  our  Horace  in  London, — 
mighty  bad  indeed.  Tour  friend's  informant  was  quite  oorrect 
in  saying  it  is  uncommonly  stupid ;  but  there's  nothing  new  in 
the  remark,  for  we  ourselves  have  always  maintained  the  same 
opinion,  and  I'm  glad  to  find  we  have  got  the  public  with  us." 

"When  Anstey,  author  of  the  Neio  Bath  Guide,  was  presented  to 
Bishop  AVarburton,  the  veteran  said,  "  Young  man,  I  will  give 
you  a  piece  of  advice:  you  have  written  a  highly  successful 
work ; — never  put  pen  to  paper  again."  James  Smith  used  to 
cite  this  authority  for  the  resolution  to  which  he  inflexibly 
adliered,  not  to  compromise  the  reputation  he  had  acquired  by 
any  future,  less  successful  undertaking. 

He  wrote  anonymously,  as  an  amusement  and   relief — and 


Xiv  BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR. 

scattered  about  his  vers  de  societe  in  manuscript  and  in  the  mag- 
azifles,  but  having  won  a  welcome  wlierever  he  went,  and  a 
desirable  position  in  society  as  a  man  of  talent  and  wit,  he 
wanted  all  motive  for  more  serious  exertion. 

James  Smith's  contributions  to  Mr.  Mathews's  Entertainments 
■were  thrown  off  with  marvellous  facility.  "  Smith  is  the  only 
man,"  Mathews  used  to  say,  "  who  can  write  clever  nonsense," 
— and  of  all  humourists  of  liis  time  Mathews  was  the  best  calcu- 
lated to  give  full  effect  to  it ;  though  liis  powers,  when  the  occasion 
required  it,  could  take  a  much  higher  range.  They  have  received 
a  worthy  tribute  in  the  beautiful  poem  by  wliich  Horace  Smith 
has  honoured  the  memory  of  his  friend.  The  combined  humour  of 
Mathews  and  James  Smith  was  first  displayed  in  the  Country 
Cousins,  which  appeared  in  1820,  at  the  Enghsh  Opera,  and  for 
many  nights  convulsed  the  town  with  laughter. 

In  the  two  succeeding  years,  and  with  the  same  prosperous 
result,  tlie  Trip  to  France,  and  the  Trip  to  America,  were  pro- 
duced. 

For  these  latter  works  Mr,  Mathews  paid  liim  a  thousand 
pounds — a  sum  to  which  the  receiver  seldom  made  allusion  with- 
out shrugging  his  shoulders,  and  ejaculating,  "A  thousand  pounds 
for  nonsense!"  At  other  times  he  would  contrast  this  large 
amount  with  the  miserable  fifteen  pounds  given  to  Milton  for  his 
Paradise  Lost;  reconciling  himself,  however,  to  the  disproportion 
by  quoting  from  the  well-known  couplet,  that  the  real  value  of 
a  thing  "is  as  much  money  as  'twill  bring;" — and  adding,  that 
liis  scrimble-scramble  stuff  always  filled  the  theatre,  and  replen- 
ished the  treasury. 

At  a  later  period  he  was  stUl  better  paid  for  a  more  trifling 
exertion  of  his  muse ;  for  having  met  at  a  dinner-party  the  late 
Mr.  Strahan,  the  King's  printer,  then  suffering  from  gout  and  old 
age,  though  his  intellectual  faculties  remained  unimpaired,  he  sent 
liim  next  morning  the  following  jeu  d'  esp7'it : — 

"Your  lower  limbs  seem'd  far  from  stout, 
When  last  I  saw  you  walk ; 
The  cause  I  presently  found  out, 
When  you  began  to  talk. 

"  The  power  that  props  the  body's  length 
In  due  proportion  spread. 
In  you  mounts  upwards,  and  the  strength 
All  settles  in  the  head." 


BIOGRAPHICAL    MEMOIR.  XV 

This  compliment  proved  so  highly  acceptable  to  the  old  gentle- 
man, that  he  made  an  immediate  codicil  to  his  will,  by  which  he 
bequeathed  to  the  writer  the  sum  of  three  hundred  pounds  I 

As  one  of  his  earhest  recollections,  James  Smith  would  relate 
that  he  had  once  been  patted  on  the  head  by  Lord  Mansfield,  as 
he  stopped  for  a  minute  to  converse  with  the  narrator's  father  in 
Ilighgate  church-yard.  The  imposition  of  this  judicial  hand, 
however,  did  not  inspire  him  with  any  ardent  love  of  the  profes- 
sion for  wliicli  he  was  destined.  The  passion,  which  in  liim  mas- 
tered all  others,  was  a  fervent  devotion  to  the  drama.  For  many 
years  he  was  never  absent  from  either  of  the  principal  theatres 
on  the  first  performance  of  a  new  piece ;  and  during  the  greater 
portion  of  liis  hfe  his  favourite  lounge  was  in  the  boxes  or  the 
green-room,  where,  above  aU  places,  his  appearance,  manners, 
and  wit,  secured  him  a  welcome  and  flattering  reception. 

Though  James  Smith  only  amused  himself  with  letters,  and 
threw  off  his  "  copies  of  verses"  with  great  facility,  for  his  lady 
friends,  the  Lyrics  and  ^Miscellaneous  Poems  that  he  permitted  to 
be  printed,  almost  merit  the  praise  bestowed  on  them  by  a 
naturally  partial  critic.  "His  poetry,"  says  his  brother  Horace, 
"  in  wliich  the  sportive  sallies  of  his  fancy  and  the  corruscations 
of  his  wit  seem  to  find  a  more  congenial  element  for  their  display, 
is  ever  terse,  buoyant,  racy,  and  dehghtful.  Modulated  by  a  fine, 
almost  a  fastidious  ear,  you  seldom  meet  an  inharmonious  line, 
a  forced  inversion,  or  an  inaccurate  rhyme ;  a  merit  the  more 
difficult  of  attainment,  because  his  proneness  to  antithesis,  brevity, 
and  epigram,  led  him  to  sharpen  almost  every  stanza  into  a 
point. 

'•  In  double  rhymes,  the  paucity  of  which  in  our  language  pre- 
sents an  almost  insurmountable  barrier  to  their  extensive  use,  he 
took  such  especial  delight,  that  it  may  be  questioned  whether  any 
writer  can  compete  with  him  in  the  frequency  and  the  happiness 
of  their  introduction.  His  facUity,  however,  did  not  betray  him 
into  slovenhness;  his  ' easy  writing'  was  never  'hard  reading;' 
and  if— because  his  works  are  not  more  bulky — he  is  finally  to  be 
enrolled  amongJ;he  '  mob  of  gentlemen,'  who  gleam 

"  'Like  twinkling  stars  the  miscellanies  o'er,' 

he  will  undoubtedly  shine  with  no  inferior  or  unconspicuous  light 
in  that  poetical  galaxy." 


XVI  BIOGRAPHICAL    MEMOIR. 

But  James  Smith  owed  his  social  position  to  other  than  his 
literary  claims.  He  possessed  fine  colloquial  powers,  was  always 
genial  and  good-natured,  set  off  his  great  personal  attractions  by 
scrupulous  attention  to  dress,  and  was  in  all  respects  a  thorough 
gentleman.  "It  was  difficult,"  wrote  one  who  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  him  in  his  latter  years,  "  to  pass  an  evening  in 
liis  company  without  feehng  in  better  humour  with  the  world ; 
such  was  the  influence  of  his  inexhaustible  fund  of  amusement 
and  information,  his  lightness,  hveliness,  and  good  sense.  No 
man  ever  excelled  him  in  starting  a  pleasant  topic  of  conversa- 
tion, and  sustaining  it ;  nor  was  it  well  possible  for  a  party  of 
moderate  dimensions,  when  he  was  of  it,  to  be  dull.  The  droll 
anecdote,  the  apt  illustration,  the  slirewd  remark,  a  trait  of 
humour  from  Fielding,  a  scrap  of  a  song  from  the  Beggar's  Opera, 
a  knock-down  retort  of  Johnson's,  a  couplet  from  Pope  or  Dry- 
den, — all  seemed  to  come  as  they  were  wanted ;  and  as  he  was 
always  just  as  ready  to  hsten  as  to  talk,  they  acted,  each  in  turn, 
as  a  sort  of  challenge  to  the  company  to  bring  forth  tlieir  budgets, 
and  contribute  towards  the  feast.  As  he  disliked  argument,  and 
never  lost  liis  temper,  or  willingly  gave  offence,  it  would  have 
been  no  easy  matter  for  others  to  lose  theirs,  or  to  offend  him." 

In  the  wide  cii-cle  of  his  London  acquaintance,  one  of  the 
houses  at  which  he  most  delighted  to  visit  was  that  of  Lady 
Blessington,  whose  conversational  powers  he  highly  admired,  and 
to  whose  Booh  of  Beauty  he  became  a  contributor.  To  this 
lady  he  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  occasional  epigrams,  and 
complimentary  or  punning  notes. 

When  not  otherwise  engaged,  he  would  take  his  plain  dinner 
at  the  Athenaeum,  the  Union,  or  the  Garrick  Club,  always  re- 
stricting himself  to  a  half-pint  of  sherry,  from  the  fear  of  liis  old 
enemy  the  gout.  The  late  Sir  William  Aylett,  a  grumbling 
member  of  the  Union,  and  a  two-bottle  man,  observing  him  to  be 
thus  frugally  furnished,  eyed  his  cruet  with  contempt,  and  ex- 
claimed, "So,  I  see  you  have  got  one  of  these  cm-sed  life-pre- 
servers." 

Although  few  persons  had  been  more  constantly  exposed  to 
the  temptation  of  convivial  parties,  James  Smith,  at  every  period, 
was  a  strictly  temperate  man ;  an  abstemiousness  which  could 
not,  however,  ward  off  the  attacks  of  gout.  These  began  to 
assail  Mm  in   middle  life,    increasing   in  their  frequency  and 


BIOQRAPIIICAL   MEMOIR.  XVll 

severity,  until,  gradually  losing  the  use  and  very  form  of  his 
limbs,  he  sank  at  times  into  a  state  of  utter  and  helpless  decrep- 
itude, which  he  bore  -with  an  undeviating  and  iinexampled 
patience. 

His  last  iUness  was  not  of  long  continuance  nor  was  it  attended 
with  suflering,  either  mental  or  corporeal.  To  death  itself  he  had 
ever  expressed  a  perfect  indifference,  though  he  was  anxious  to 
be  spared  a  painful  or  protracted  exit ;  a  wish  in  which  he  was 
fortunately  gratified.  He  died  in  his  house  in  Craven-street, 
on  the  24th  December,  1839,  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his  age, 
and  was  buried  under  the  vaults  of  St.  Martin's  church. 

Allusion  has  been  made  in  this  memoir  to  Tom  HiU's  cottage 
at  Sydenliam,  and  the  guests  who  visited  there.  It  is  famous 
in  the  kind  report  of  many  men  of  note.  It  was  much 
frequented  by  Campbell  during  his  residence  at  Sydenham,  and 
it  was  there  that  the  Smiths  habitually  met  Mathews  and  some- 
times his  fellow-comedian  Liston ;  Tlieodore  Hook ;  Edward 
Dubois,  afterwards  author  of  My  Pocket  Booh,  a  jeic  d'esprit, 
written  in  ridicule  of  Sir  John  Carr's  Traveh ;  Leigh  Hunt  and 
his  brother  John ;  John  Taylor,  editor  of  the  Sun  newspaper ; 
Horace  Twiss ;  Barron  Field ;  and  T.  Barnes,  who  was  after- 
wards distinguished  as  the  "  thunderer"  of  the  Times.  To  this 
circle,  Mathews  with  his  mimicry,  his  rich  flow  of  anecdote,  and 
his  irresistible  comic  songs,  was  a  constant  source  of  amusement ; 
but  Hook  is  said  to  have  been  its  more  genuine  and  natural 
Momus.  Horace  Smith,  in  the  early  part  of  Hook's  career, 
expressed  a  total  disbelief  in  his  alleged  improvisation.  One  of 
his  good-natured  friends  repeated  the  remark.  "  Oh,  the  unbeliev- 
ing dog!"  exclaimed  the  vocalist,  "tell  him  if  I  am  called  upon 
again,  he  himself  shall  dictate  the  subject  and  the  tune,  which  of 
course  involves  the  metre ;  but  it  must  be  some  common  popular 
air."  All  this  took  place,  and  Hook  produced  one  of  lais  most 
brilliant  songs.  "  I  made  a  very  humble  palinode  for  my  mis- 
trust!"— said  the  doubter  long  afterwards, — "and  expressed  the 
astonishment  and  delight  with  which  his  truly  wonderful  per- 
formance had  electrified  me.  Not  without  difficulty,  however, 
had  I  been  enabled  to  beUeve  my  own  ears,  and  several  days 
elapsed  before  I  had  completely  recovered  from  my  bewilderment, 
for,  as  an  occasional  rhymester,  I  could  well  appreciate  the  diffi- 
culty of  the  achievement."     Hook  repaid  the  hospitality  of  his 


XVm  BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR. 

Sydenham  Amphitryon  by  depicting  him  as  the  HuU  of  Gilbert 
Ourney.  HlU  also  sat  for  Paul  Pry,  and  was  familiarly  pointed 
out  in  London  as  its  original.  He  Uved  to  an  advanced  age,  and, 
though  he  met  with  pecuniary  reverses,  retained  his  freshness  of 
appearance,  and  cheerfulness  of  disposition,  to  the  last. 

In  the  year  1813  Horace  Smith  wrote  a  comedy  in  five  acts,  enti- 
tled First  Impressions,  or,  Trade  in  the  West ;  the  authorship  of 
which  he  had  concealed  from  aU  but  his  friend  Barron  Field,  at 
whose  chamber,  in  the  Temple,  he  had  agreed  to  dine  on  the  night 
of  the  first  representation,  that  they  might  proceed  to  the  theatre 
together.  Mr.  LangsdorfF,  an  attache  of  some  German  embassy, 
was  present,  and  joined  the  party  for  Drury  Lane,  where  they 
took  their  places  in  the  pit.  AU  went  on  smoothly  until  the 
dehvery  of  a  speech  by  one  of  the  actors,  to  the  effect  that  the 
money  raised  in  England  for  a  single  charity  often  exceeded  the 
revenue  of  a  whole  German  principality.  "Votisdat?"  whis- 
pered LangsdorfF  to  the  incog,  author ;  "  does  he  lafi"  at  de 
Jairmans  ?  den  I  shall  damn  liis  blay."  Thereupon  he  set  up  a 
low  hiss,  which  he  renewed  with  increased  vigour  on  every  re- 
appearance of  a  certain  character,  tiU  he  succeeded  in  estabUshing 
a  decided  opposition.  As  the  clamour  waxed  louder  the  author 
joined  in  it,  loudly  vociferating,  "  off !  off ! !  "  A  fortunate  change, 
however,  took  place  in  the  humour  of  the  audience,  and  they 
finally  put  down  the  playwright  and  his  German  friend,  and  the 
piece  was  successful,  being  acted  subsequently  twenty  nights. 
A  farce  of  liis,  entitled  The  Absent  Apothecary,  was  less  fortunate, 
and  was  incontinently  damned  on  its  first  night. 

With  Horace  Smith,  literature  and  his  city  business  went  hand 
in  hand.  Before  he  relinquished  his  counting  room  a  friend 
met  him  posting  westward  one  day  about  three  o'clock.  "  Where 
are  you  going  so  fast.  Smith  ?"  "  Who  would  not  go  fast  to 
Paradise  (Paradise  row,  Fulham)  ?  I  am  going  to  sin  like  our 
first  parents."  "  How  ?  there  are  no  apples  to  pluck  at  Fulham, 
yet."     "No;  but   there   is   ink   to   spill,  though — a   worse  sin, 

perhaps.    I  have  promised  L something,  I  cannot  teU  what. 

Who  the  deuce  can  hit  upon  any  thing  new,  when  half  the  world 
is  racking  its  brains  to  do  the  same  ?" 

"  This,"  adds  the  reminiscent,  who  wrote  a  few  months  after  the 
death  of  Horace, — "  this  is  thirty  years  ago,  and  now  the  utterer 
of  that  remark  is  within  the  precincts  of  the  tomb ;  while  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL    MEMOIR.  XIX 

intervening  time  saw  no  diminution  of  his  regard  for  intellectual 
pleasures,  nor,  with  much  to  flatter  liis  talents  in  the  way  of 
his  Uterary  labours,  any  decrease  of  that  modest  feeling  in  regard 
to  his  own  writings,  wliich  is  one  of  the  strongest  attestations  of 
merit.  In  this  respect  he  differed  from  liis  brother,  who  had,  or 
always  impressed  the  minds  of  others  that  he  had,  a  full  sense  of 
the  merit  of  his  own  compositions." 

The  success  of  Horace  Smith  in  the  Rejected  Addresses  attached 
him  to  a  life  of  letters,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  acquired  a  compe- 
tency he  abandoned  the  vocation  of  a  money-changer.  In  spite 
of  the  reproaches  of  his  city  friends  he  seized  the  moment  for 
retiring  while  independence  was  within  his  grasp.  "  The  hope  of 
future  gain" — he  remarked — "  might  lead  him  to  risk  what  he  had 
secured."  This  was  about  the  year  1820.  When  the  crash  of 
1825  occurred,  he  was  able  to  turn  the  tables  on  those  who  had 
reproached  him.  "  Where  are  those  now  who  called  me  a  fool  for 
retiring,  when  I  had  the  independence  that  satisfied  my  wishes  ? 
Who  was  right  ?     I  pity  them !" 

During  a  residence  in  France  that  followed  his  retirement  from 
active  business,  in  conjunction  with  one  or  two  friends,  he  pro- 
jected the  establishment  of  an  English  newspaper  in  Paris.  They 
could  never  procure  the  consent  of  the  French  government, 
however,  nor  its  refusal,  to  the  undertaking,  and  it  was  abandoned. 
During  his  residence  abroad,  and  on  his  return  to  England,  he 
was  a  constant  contributor  to  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  then 
edited  by  his  friend,  the  poet  Campbell.  He  sometimes  wrote 
also  for  the  London  Magazine,  conducted  by  John  Scott,  a  man 
of  uncommon  ability  in  liis  profession,  who  fell  in  a  duel  that  fol- 
lowed his  indignant  and  bitter  invectives  against  Lockhart,  and 
his  associates  in  Blackwood's  Magazine.  He  had  been  previously 
connected  with  Scott  in  editing  the  Champion  newspaper,  to  which 
Tohn  Hamilton  Reynolds  and  T.  Barnes,  afterwards  of  the  Times, 
were  also  contributors.  About  the  year  1825,  however,  he  gave 
up  writing  for  periodicals,  and  commenced  his  career  as  a  novel 
writer  by  the  publication  of  Bramhletye  House,  his  first  and  best 
historical  novel.  This  was  followed  by  Tor  Hill,  Reuben  Apsley, 
Jane  Lomax,  The  New  Forest,  Walter  Colyton,  The  Moneyed 
Man,  Adam,  Brown,  and  Arthur  Arundel ;  all  of  which  were 
published,  we  believe,  by  Mr.  Colburn. 

Horace   Smith  was  the  author  of  more  than  fifty  volumes. 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR. 

besides  tliose  which  he  edited.  Many  of  these  were  published 
anonymously,  and  perhaps  have  never  been  acknowledged.  They 
exhibit  not  only  great  industry,  but  also  great  tact  and  versatihty 
in  the  writer. 

"It  was  about  1826,"  says  a  writer  in  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine,  "  that  he  published  his  first  novel.  He  had  some  time 
before  taken  up  his  abode  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  quitting  London 
and  his  lodgings  at  142  Regent-street,  of  which  he  declared  liim- 
self  heartily  sick.  Even  at  tliis  distance  of  time,  we  remember 
a  dinner  he  gave  there  before  he  started — the  last,  it  is  probable, 
that  he  ever  gave  in  London — and  the  hilarity  of  the  guests, 
among  whom  were  some  of  the  celebrated  wits  of  the  time,  most 
of  whom  are  now  no  more.  At  Tunbridge  Wells  we  soon  paid 
him  a  visit,  while  residing  in  Mount  Edgecombe  Cottage.  He 
was,  as  usual,  kind,  entertaining,  and  hospitable.  We  think  of 
that  time  with  melancholy  pleasure.  His  qualities  were  the 
most  amiable,  the  most  gentle,  in  those  days,  that  can  be  con- 
ceived. Surely,  if  integrity,  sincerity,  and  real  friendliness  de- 
serve happiness,  they  must  be  Ms.  There  we  met  an  old  friend 
of  his  whom  we  have  not  seen  for  years — a  clever  and  ingenious 
man;  the  author  of  a  novel  not  enough  known."  A  pilgrim- 
age to  Penshurst,  the  old  seat  of  the  Sidneys,  suggested  on  this 
occasion,  was  the  origin  of  Brambletye  House.  Smith  remarked 
that  such  buildings  were  the  best  foundation  scenes  for  novels ; 
and  it  was  no  wonder  that  they  had  been  so  often  chosen.  It 
was  about  this  time  that  some  one  recommended  the  female 
name  of  Zillah  as  one  pecuharly  pleasing.  "To  me,"  said 
Horace,  "  it  would  of  course  be  doubly  interesting.  She  was  a 
lady  of  the  very  earliest  descent;  the  mother  of  Tubal  Cain,  the 
fi.rst  of  the  Smiths,  and  of  course  the  founder  of  my  family." 

"  Both  brothers,"  continues  the  writer  we  have  last  quoted, 
"  were  clever  men  and  piquant  writers,  but  Horace  Smith  was 
something  beyond  tliis.  He  possessed  talents  of  a  wider  scope 
than  James;  his  views  were  more  extended;  he  was  more 
intellectually  accompUshed ;  had  seen  much  more  of  the  world, 
and  thought  deeper.  James  was  a  wit,  an  agreeable  companion, 
possessed  of  a  fine  vein  of  humour,  but  circumscribed  in  the  extent 
of  his  information,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  more  concen- 
trated in  himself.  James  selected  his  subjects,  for  the  most  part, 
within  the  circle  in  which  he  moved,  and  continued  to  move 


BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR.  xxi 

through  life.  A  happy  point,  -well  made,  it  was  his  delight  to 
repeat  at  the  dinner-table  or  in  the  evening  party.  His  jokes — 
and  excellent  they  were — thrown  off  among  convivial  friends — 
in  short,  society,  cheerfulness,  and  its  accompaniments — consti- 
tuted the  summum  of  his  Ufe's  pleasures.  His  frame  was  not 
active ;  his  bachelor  habits  and  dinings-out  rendered  him  a  sul^- 
ject  for  the  gout,  to  which  disorder  he  ultimately  fell  a  victim. 
From  his  office  in  Austin  Friars  to  his  residence  in  the  Strand 
constituted  the  major  part  of  liis  journeyings.  Horace,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  of  an  active  make.  A  year  or  two  after  we  first 
knew  him,  he  visited  Italy ;  and  returning,  for  some  time  made 
France  liis  residence.  We  first  saw  James  at  his  office  in  Austin 
Friars,  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  He  looked  as  serious  as  the 
parchment  and  papers  surrounding  him.  He  seemed  in  tliis 
situation  as  little  of  a  wit  as  can  well  be  imagined.  A  joke  took 
place  on  this  visit  often  subsequently  repeated.  There  were  two 
Smiths  on  the  same  side  of  the  court,  and  we  had  very  naturally 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  first  we  came  to.  On  entering  his 
office,  we  mentioned  our  mistake.  '  Ay,'  said  James  Smith, 
'I  am  James  the  first;  he  must  abdicate.' 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  the  most  witty  in 
the  social  hour.  Both  brothers  may  be  characterized  rather  as 
possessors  of  a  high  talent  for  humour,  than  of  that  sparkhng  wit 
which  characterized  Hook.  Sometimes,  with  all  his  wonderful 
readiness,  it  was  hit  or  miss  with  Hook,  who  aimed  at  notoriety 
no  matter  how  acquired.  The  Smiths  were  both  graver  men, 
and  would  have  thought  to  run  a  joke  too  near  to  a  failure  was 
akin  to  one.  We  have  known  Horace  Smith  indignant  at  Hook's 
jesting,  not  only  ill,  but  out  of  place,  in  liis  wild  manner. 

"  James  Smith  wanted  the  cordial  spirit  of  his  brother ;  there 
was,  we  fancied,  httle  warmth  of  heart  about  him.  He  seemed 
to  mingle  somewhat  of  his  professional  character  in  social  inter- 
course. On  this  accoimt  we  surmise  that  James  will  be  much 
sooner  forgotten  by  Ins  friends  than  Horace.  Both  brothers  were 
delightful  companions.  Many  an  hour  of  mental  depression  have 
we  felt  reheved  by  their  society.  The  humour  and  gladiatorial 
displays  of  wit  that  occurred  in  their  company,  were  always 
gentlemanly,  generous  in  temper,  unimpeachably  moral,  and 
never  the  splenetic  outpouring  of  ill-feeUng.  Horace,  or  Horatio, 
as  he  always  subscribed  himself,  was  not  only  the  most  accom- 


XXll  BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR. 

plished,  but  the  most  genial  spirit  of  the  two.  He  was  as  much 
attracted  to  the  society  of  Uterary  men  who  made  no  pretension 
to  be  wits,  and  to  sohd  and  serious  reading  as  to  the  gay  and 
Hght." 

Leigh  Hunt,  in  liis  expressive  use  of  odd  epithets,  says  that 
Horace  Smith  was  "  dehcious."  He  never  met  with  a  finer 
nature  in  man,  except  in  the  single  instance  of  Shelley,  who 
himself  entertained  the  highest  regard  for  Horace  Smith,  as  may 
be  seen  by  the  following  verses,  the  initials  in  wliich  the  reader 
may  fiU  up  with  his  name : — 

"  Wit  and  sense. 
Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight. 
Are  all  combined  in  H.  S." 

SheUey  once  said  to  Leigh  Hunt — "I  know  not  what  Horace 
Smith  must  take  me  for  sometimes :  I  am  afraid  he  must  think 
me  a  strange  fellow :  but  is  it  not  odd  that  the  only  truly  generous 
person  I  ever  knew,  who  had  money  to  be  generous  with,  should 
be  a  stock-broker !  and  he  writes  poetry  too" — continued  Shelley, 
his  voice  rising  in  a  fervour  of  astonishment ;  "  he  writes  poetry 
and  pastoral  dramas,  and  yet  knows  how  to  make  money,  and 
does  make  it,  and  is  stUl  generous."  The  pastoral  drama  alluded 
to  was  probably  Tlie  Kympholept,  pubUshed  anonymously  in 
1821.  Whatever  may  have  been  its  merit,  its  circulation  was 
Umited,  and  it  is  no  longer  remembered. 

"  I  beUeve,"  said  Shelley  on  another  occasion,  "  that  I  have 
only  to  say  to  Horace  Smith  that  I  want  a  hundred  pounds  or 
two,  and  he  would  send  it  to  me  without  any  eye  to  its  being 
returned ;  such  faith  has  he  that  I  have  sometliing  within  me 
beyond  what  the  world  supposes,  and  that  I  could  only  ask  his 
money  for  a  good  purpose."  What  SheUey  says  that  Smith 
would  have  done  for  him,  he  was  known  more  than  once  to  have 
done  for  others  with  a  dehcacy  that  enhanced  the  generosity  of 
the  act. 

Horace  Smith  took  leave  of  the  pubUc  in  the  preface  to  Love 
and  Mesmerism,  pubUshed  in  1845,  announced  as  his  last  work  of 
fiction.  He  kept  Ms  resolution  in  tliis  regard,  but  his  pen  could 
not  remain  idle.  He  subsequently  wrote  a  series  of  entertaining 
papers  for  the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  He  died  at  Tunbridge 
WeUs,  on  the  12th  of  July,  1849,  in  his  seventieth  year. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   MEMOIR.  XXllI 

The  novels  of  Horace  Smith  were  well  received  at  the  time 
of  their  appearance,  and  several  of  them  are  still  republished.  We 
find  the  names  of  three,  not  generally  esteemed  the  best,  still 
reprinted  in  the  United  States,  in  the  select  hbrary  of  novels  of 
the  Brothers  Harper.  As  a  poet,  his  productions  were  usually 
suggested  by  the  events  passing  around  him,  and  were  printed 
in  the  monthly  magazines  of  his  friends,  Campbell  and  John  Scott. 
From  these  journals  they  were  transferred  to  newspapers,  readers, 
and  class-books,  till  they  became  familiar  to  the  public  before 
their  appearance  in  a  collected  form.  They  deserve  their  popu- 
larity. They  are  written  in  a  philosopliic,  no  less  than  a  poetical 
spirit.  They  exhibit  no  ordinary  grace  of  expression,  and  the 
versification  is  always  harmonious  and  skillful.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  obscure  or  spasmodic  about  them,  but  they  are  simple  and 
eflective.  The  lines  on  the  Funeral  of  Campbell  are  worthy  of 
the  great  poet  whom  they  commemorate.  The  stanzas  on 
Southey  and  Scott  are  full  of  solemnity  and  pathos.  The  Address 
to  the  Mummy  is  picturesque  and  animated ;  and  the  Sicilian 
Arethiisa  not  only  seems  a  veritable  fragment  of  ancient  Hterature, 
but  is  as  musical  and  melodious  as  any  verse  in  the  language. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Horace  Smith,  according  to  Leigh 
Hunt,  was  highly  indicative  of  his  character.  His  figure  was 
good  and  manly,  inchning  to  the  robust ;  and  his  countenance 
extremely  frank  and  cordial;  sweet  without  weakness.  His 
character  is  succinctly  and  beautifully  described,  in  the  paragraph 
in  which  the  London  Examiner  announced  his  decease,  and  paid 
a  tribute  to  liis  memory.  "  He  was  a  man  of  correct  taste  and 
the  most  generous  sympathies,  a  delightful  writer  both  in  prose 
and  verse,  a  cheerful  and  wise  companion  and  a  fast  friend.  No 
man  had  a  wider  range  of  admirable  and  genial  qualities ;  and 
far  beyond  that  private  circle  of  which  he  was  the  great  charm 
and  ornament,  his  loss  will  be  deeply  felt."  If  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  words  to  convey  more  graceful  and  emphatic  praise, 
it  would  be  equally  so  to  find  a  man  who,  from  all  report,  more 
fully  deserves  it  than  Horace  Smith. 


PREFATORY    STANZAS. 


Talk  not  to  me  of  Necromantic  wights, 

And  dread  magicians, 
Who,  by  their  potent  spells,  could  conjure  sprites, 

Ghosts,  apparitions. 
And  raise  the  dead  from  the  forgotten  past. 
Each  in  the  perfect  mould  of  pre-existence  cast. 


I,  though  no  conjuror,  have  far  outdone 

Such  Archimages, 
For,  as  I  culled  and  pondered,  one  bj  one, 

These  scattered  pages. 
From  the  dark  past,  and  memory's  eclipse, 
Up  rose  in  vision  clear  my  life's  Apocalypse. 


4  PREFATORY   STANZAS. 

Mutely  each  re-creative  lay  outpoured 

Its  own  revealings ; 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  -were  momently  restored, 

With  all  their  feelings. 
Friends  long  deceased  were  summoned  from  the  tomb ; 
Forgotten  scenes  regained  their  vividness  and  bloom. 

Again  did  I  rechne  in  copses  green, 

Gazing  from  under 
Some  oak's  thwart  boughs  upon  the  slcy  serene. 

In  reverent  wonder ; 
Or  starting  from  the  sward  with  ear  acute, 
To  hear  the  cuckoo  sound  its  soft  two-noted  flute. 

Association  !  thy  transcendant  power 

What  art  can  rival  ? 
Muse-haunted  strolls  by  river,  field,  or  bower, 

At  thy  revival. 
Return  once  more,  and  in  their  second  birth 
Bring  back  each  former  scent  and  sound  of  air  and  earth. 

In  social  joys  where  song  and  music's  zest 

Made  beauty  fairer. 
In  festive  scenes  with  all  their  mirth  and  jest, 

Once  more  a  sharer, 
I  see  the  smiles,  and  hear  the  laughter  loud, 
Of  many  a  fi'iend,  alas !  now  mouldering  in  his  shroud. 


PREFATORY    STANZAS.  5 

So,  when  the  hands  are  dust  that  now  entwine 

These  prompting  pages, 
Some  future  reader,  as  a  jest  or  line 

His  thought  engages, 
Feeling  old  memories  from  their  grave  arise, 
May  thus,  in  pensive  mood,  perchance  soliloquise : 

"  I  knew  the  bardling;  'twas  his  nature's  bent, 

His  creed's  chief  feature, 
To  hold  that  a  benign  Creator  meant 

To  bless  the  creature. 

And  giving  man  a  boon  denied  to  brute, 

Loved  him  to  exercise  his  laughing  attribute. 

"  He  felt  that  cheerfulness,  when  unalloyed 

With  aught  immoral. 
Was  piety,  on  earth,  in  heaven  enjoyed  ; 

And  wished  his  laurel 
To  be  a  Misletoc,  whose  grace  should  make 
The  mirth-devoted  year  one  hallowed  Christmas  wake. 

"  In  mystic  transcendental  clouds  to  soar 

Was  not  his  mission, 
Yet  could  he  mould  at  times  the  solid  ore 

Of  admonition ; 
Offenceless,  grave  or  gay,  at  least  that  praise 
May  grace  his  name,  and  speed  his  unpretending  lays." 


6  PREFATORY    STAITZAS. 

If  such  thy  welcome,  little  Book  !  discard 

Fears  of  thine  ordeal ; 
Go  forth,  and  tell  thy  readers  that  the  Bard, 

With  fervent,  cordial 
Feelings  of  gratitude  and  hope  comhined, 
Bids  them  all  hail,  and  wafts  them  every  feeling  kind. 


HYMN   TO   THE   FLOWERS. 


Day-staks  !  that  ope  your  frownless  eyes  to  t-n'inklo 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation. 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !  who  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  Sun,  God's  lidless  eye. 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  Mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty, 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesselate, 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air. 
Makes  sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand. 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 

Which  God  hath  planned; 


HYMN   TO   THE    FLOWERS. 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  -wonder, 

Whose  quenchless  lam-ps  the  sun  and  moon  supply ; 
Its  choir  the  -winds  and  waves — its  organ  thunder — 
Its  dome  the  skj. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  -wander 

Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
A-wed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  -ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  Flo-wers  !  are  living  preachers, 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  Apostles  !  that  in  dev{j  splendour 

"  Weep  -without  ^\oe,  and  blush  -without  a  crime," 
0  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime  ! 

"  Thou  -wert  not,  Solomon  !  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry — "  in  robes  like  ours; 
Ho-w  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers !" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  artist ! 

With  which  thou  paintest  nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  Flowers !  though  made  for  pleasure: 

Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 


ADDRESS   TO   A   MUMMY.  9 

Ephemeral  sages  !  ^Yhat  instructors  lioarj 

For  such  a  world  of  thouglit  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  caljx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope.   . 

Posthumous  glories  !  angel-likc  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 
Ye  arc  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
And  second  birth. 

"Were  I  in  churchless  solitudes  remaining, 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  and  divines, 
Mj  soul  ^Y0uld  find,  in  flowers  of  God's  ordaining. 
Priests^  sermons,  shrines  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  A  MUMMY. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story!) 
In  Thebes' s  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  arc  tremendous. 

Speak  !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  Dummy. 

Thou  hast  a  tongue — come — let  us  hear  its  tune ; 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above-ground,  Mummy  ! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 


10  ADDRESS   TO   A   MUMMY. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect, 

To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name? 

Is  Pompej's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Priest — if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass ; 

Or  dropped  a  half-penny  in  Homer's  hat. 
Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed. 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled, 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop,  if  that  withered  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen, 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  Deluge  still  had  left  it  green — 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  History's  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 


ADDRESS  TO   A   MUMMY.  ll 

Still  silent !  incommunicative  elf ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  keep  thy  vows  ; 
But  pry  thee  tell  us  something  of  thyself — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  ; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered, 
What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adventures  numbered? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 

"We  have,  above-ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations. 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended, 

New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old  nations, 

And  countless  Kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear  and  Avonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  th3  tomb's  sesrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have  rolled  : — 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  ? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 

Statue  of  flesh — Immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence. 
Thou  Avilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  Trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 


12  ADDRESS   TO 

Why  should  this  Avorthless  tegument  endure. 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 
Oh !  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that  Avhen  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom  I 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  ORANGE-TREE  AT 
VERSAILLES, 

CALLED  THE  GREAT  BOTIBBON,  WHICH   18  ABOVE  FOCU  nUNDEED   YEAK8  OLIX. 

When  France  with  civil  wars  was  torn, 
And  heads,  as  well  as  crowns  were  shorn 

From  royal  shoulders, 
One  Bourbon,  in  unaltered  plight. 
Hath  still  maintained  its  legal  right, 
And  held  its  court — a  goodly  sight 

To  all  beholders. 

Thou,  leafy  monarch,  thou  alone, 
Hast  sat  uninjured  on  thy  throne, 

Seeing  the  war  range ; 
And  when  the  great  Nassaus  were  sent 
Crownless  away  (a  sad  event !) 
Thou  didst  uphold  and  represent 

The  House  of  Orange. 

'  To  tell  what  changes  thou  hast  seen. 

Each  grand  monarque,  and  king  and  queen, 

Of  French  extraction. 
Might  puzzle  those  who  don't  conceive 
French  history,  so  I  believe 
Comparing  thee  with  ours  will  give 
More  satisfaction. 


THE   ORANGE-TREE   AT   VERSAILLES.  13 

Westminster  Hall,*  whose  oaken  roof 
The  pipers  say  (but  thafs  no  proof), 

Is  nearly  rotten, 
Existed  but  in  stones  and  trees, 
■\Vben  thou  wert  waving  in  the  breeze. 
And  blossoms  (what  a  treat  for  bees  !) 

By  scores  hadst  gotten. 

Chaucer,  so  old  a  bard  that  time 

Has  antiquated  every  chime, 

And  from  his  tomb  outworn  each  rhyme 

"Within  the  Abbey ; 
■  And  Gower,  an  older  poet  whom 
The  Borough  Cliurch  enshrines  (his  tomb, 
Though  once  restored,  has  lost  its  bloom, 

And  got  quite  shabby), 

Lived  in  thy  time — the  first  perchance 
^Yas  beating  monksf  when  thou  in  Franca 

By  monks  wert  beaten, 
"VVho  shook  beneath  this  very  tree 
Their  reverend  beards,  with  glutton  glee, 
As  each  down-falling  luxury 

Was  caught  and  eaten. 

Perchance  when  Henry  gained  the  fight 
Of  Agincourt,  some  Gaulish  knight 
(His  bleeding  steed  in  woful  plight, 

With  smoking  haunches), 
Laid  down  his  helmet  at  thy  root. 
And,  as  he  plucked  the  grateful  fruit. 
Suffered  his  poor  exhausted  brute 

To  crop  thy  branches. 

*  Rebuilt  1309. 

•)-  There  is  a  tradition  (though  not  authenticated)  that  Chaucer  was 
fined  for  beating  a  monk  in  Fleet-street. 


14  THE   ORANGE-TREE   AT   VERSAILLES. 

Thou  Avert  of  portly  size  and  look, 
When  first  the  Turks  besieged  and  took 

Constantinople ; 
And  eagles  in  thy  boughs  might  perch, 
When,  leaving  Bullen  in  the  lurch. 
Another  Henrj  changed  his  church, 

And  used  the  Pope  ill. 

What  numerous  namesakes  hast  thou  seen 
Lounging  beneath  thy  shady  green, 

With  monks  as  lazy ; 
Louis  Quatorze  has  pressed  that  ground, 
With  his  six  mistresses  around — 
A  sample  of  the  old  and  sound 

Legitimacy. 

And  when  despotic  freaks  and  vices 
Brought  on  the  inevitable  crisis 

Of  revolution. 
Thou  heard'st  the  mob's  infuriate  shriek, 
Who  came  their  victim  Queen  to  seek, 
On  guiltless  heads  the  wrath  to  wreak 

Of  retribution. 

Oh !  of  what  follies,  vice,  and  crime, 
Hast  thou,  in  thine  eventful  time, 

Been  made  beholder  ! 
What  wars,  what  feuds— the  thoughts  appal! 
Each  against  each,  and  all  with  all. 
Till  races  upon  races  fall. 

In  earth  to  moulder. 

Whilst  thou,  serene,  unaltered,  calm 
(Such  are  the  constant  gifts  and  balm 
Bestowed  by  Nature  I) 


SICILIAN   ARETHUSA.  15 

Hast  year  by  year  renewed  thy  flo-wcrs, 
And  periumed  the  surrounding  bowers, 
And  poured  down  grateful  fruit  by  showers. 
And  proflered  shade  in  summer  hours 
To  man  and  creature. 

Thou  green  and  venerable  tree ! 
Whate'er  the  future  doom  may  be, 

By  fortune  given, 
Remember  that  a  rhymester  brought 
From  foreign  shores  thine  umbrage  sought, 
Recalled  the  blessings  thou  hadst  wrought, 
And,  as  he  thanked  thee,  raised  his  thought 

To  heaven ! 


SICILIAN  ARETHUSA. 

Sicilian'  Arethusa !  thou,  whose  arms 

Of  azure  round  the  Thymbrian  meadows  wind, 

Still  are  thy  margins  lined 

With  the  same  flowers  Proserpina  was  weaving 

In  Enua's  field,  beside  Pergusa's  lake, 

When  swarthy  Dis,  upheaving. 

Saw  her,  and,  stung  to  madness  by  her  charms, 

Down  snatched  her,  shrieking,  to  his  Stygian  couch. 

Thy  waves,  Sicilian  Arethusa,  flow 

In  cadence  to  the  shepherd's  flageolet 

As  tunefully  as  Avhen  they  wont  to  crouch 

Beneath  the  banks  to  catch  the  pipings  low 

Of  old  Theocritus,  and  hear  him  trill 

Bucolic  songs,  and  Amoebsean  lays. 

And  still,  Sicilian  Arethusa,  still, 


16  THE   SHRIEK   OF   PROMETHEUS. 

Though  Etna  dry  thee  up,  or  frosts  enchain, 

Thy  music  shall  be  heard,  for  poets  high 

Have  dipped  their  wreaths  in  thee,  and  bj  their  prais' 

Made  thee  immortal  as  themselves.     Thy  flowers, 

Transplanted,  an  eternal  bloom  retain. 

Rooted  in  words  that  cannot  fade  or  die. 

Thy  liquid  gush  and  gurgling  melody 

Have  left  undying  echoes  in  the  bowers 

Of  tuneful  poesy.     Thy  very  name, 

Sicilian  Arethusa,  had  been  drowned 

In  deep  oblivion,  but  that  the  buoyant  breath 

Of  bards  uplifted. it,  and  bade  it  swim 

Adown  the  eternal  lapse,  assured  of  fame, 

Till  all  things  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  death. 

Where,  Immortality  !  where  canst  thou  found 

Thy  throne  unperishing,  but  in  the  hymn 

Of  the  true  bard,  whose  breath  encrusts  his  theme 

Like  to  a  petrifaction,  which  the  stream 

Of  time  will  only  make  more  durable  ? 


THE  SHRIEK  OF  PRO:\IETHEUS. 

B'jaGESTEr)   BY   A   PAGS.VGE  IN   TII3   SECOND  liOOZl   OF   APOLLONnjS  UrtODrUS. 

Fresh  was  the  breeze  and  the  rowers  plied 
Their  oars  with  simultaneous  motion, 

"When  the  Argo  sailed  in  her  stately  prido 
By  the  laurelled  shores  of  the  Pontic  Ocean. 

The  island  of  Mars  with  its  palmy  coves, 
The  Sacred  Mount,  and  Aretia's  strands, 

And  Philyra's  Isle  with  its  linden  groves, 
And  Ophir's  flood  with  its  slielly  sands, 


TIIB   SHRIEK   OF   PROMETHEUS.  17 

Swiftly  they  passed — till,  stretching  far, 
On  their  right  Bechiria's  coast  appears. 

Where  painted  Sapirians,  fierce  in  war, 
Bristle  the  beach  with  bows  and  spears. 

At  distance  they  saw  the  sunbeams  quiver 

Where  the  long-sought  towers  of  Colchis  stood, 

And  marked  the  foam  of  the  Phasis  river. 
As  it  flung  from  it3  rosky  mouth  the  flood. 

The  Argonauts  gaze  with  hungry  eyes 

On  the  land  enriched  by  the  Golden  Fleece, 

Already  in  fancy  they  grasp  the  prize, 

And  hear  the  shouts  of  applauding  Greece. 

Jason  looked  out  with  a  proud  delight, 
Castor  and  Pollux  stood  hand  in  hand, 

Showing  each  other  the  welcome  sight ; 
While  fierce  Meleager  unsheathed  his  brand. 

Liocaon  bade  the  rowers  check 

Their  oars,  as  the  sun  to  the  water  slanted. 
For  Orpheus  sate  with  his  harp  on  the  deck. 

And  sweetly  the  hymn  of  evening  chanted, 

While  the  heroes  around,  at  each  pause  of  sound, 
Stretched  their  right  hands  to  the  god  of  day, 
And  fervently  joined  in  the  choral  lay. 

THE    HYMN    OF    ORPHEUS. 

Twin-born  with  Dian  in  the  Delos  isle, 
Which  after  the  Ogygian  deluge  thou 

Didst  first  illume  with  renovating  smile, 
Apollo  !  deign  to  hear  our  evening  vow. 


18         THE  SHRIEK  OF  PROMETHEUS. 

CHORUS. 

When  thou'rt  dim,  our  harp  and  hymn 
Thy  downward  course  shall  follow : 
.  Hail  to  thee  ! — hail  to  thee  I 
Hail  to  thee,  Apollo  ! 

God  of  the  art  that  heals  the  shattered  frame, 
And  poetry  that  soothes  the  wounded  mind. 

Ten  thousand  temples,  honoured  with  thy  name, 
Attest  thy  ceaseless  blessings  to  mankmd. 

CHORUS. 

When  thou'rt  dim,  our  harp  and  hymn 
Thy  downward  course  shall  follow  : 

Hail  to  thee  ! — hail  to  thee  ! 
Hail  to  thee,  Apollo !      . 

Thy  golden  bow  emits  a  gushing  strain 
Of  music  when  the  Pythian  serpent  dies  : 

His  eyes  flash  fire — his  writhings  plough  the  plain  : 
Hissing  he  leaps  aloft — then  lifeless  lies. 

CHORUS. 

When  thou'rt  dim,  our  harp  and  hymn 
Thy  downward  course  shall  follow: 

Hail  to  thee  ! — hail  to  thee ! 
Hail  to  thee,  Apollo  ! 

Pan  of  his  pipe  and  rural  science  proud, 

Dreamt  that  his  music  might  with  thine  aspire  ; 

The  mountain  Tmolus  was  the  judge— and  bowed 
His  noddmg  woods  in  homage  to  thy  lyre. 


THE  SURIEK  OF  PROMETHEUS.         19 

CHORUS. 

When  tbou'rt  dim,  with  harp  and  hjnin 

Thj  downward  course  we  follow : 
Hail  to  thee  ! — hail  to  thee  ! 
Hail  to  thee,  Apollo  ! 

From  bowers  of  Daphne  on  Parnassus'  Mount, 
While  Delphic  girls  their  lo  Paeans  sing, 

The  gifted  Muses  bj  Castalia's  Fount 

With  choral  symphonies  salute  their  king. 

CHORUS. 

When  tbou'rt  dim,  witb  harp  and  hymn 

Thy  downward  course  we  follow  : 
Hail  to  thee  ! — hail  to  thee ! 

Hail  to  thee  Apollo  ! 

God  of  the  golden  lyre  and  laurel  wreath, 
To  thee  each  poet  turns  with  yearning  heart 

And  thoughtful  eyes,  invoking  thee  to  breathe 
Thine  inspiration 

With  a  start 
The  minstrel  ceased — for  over  all  the  bark 

A  baleful  shadow  on  a  sudden  spread ! 
The  Argonauts  looked  up,  and  saw  a  dark 

And  monstrous  eagle  hovering  o'er  their  head ; 
So  vast  and  fearful,  that  transfixed  and  pale 

They  stood,  with  wild  amaze  o'ertaken  : — 
The  vessel  trembles,  and  the  shivering  sail 

Flaps  as  if  with  terror  shaken. 
Entranced  they  gazed — and  silent  till 

Philas,  the  son  of  Bacchus,  seized  his  bow, 

And  would  have  aimed  it  at  the  feathered  foe, 
But  Mopsus,  gifted  with  an  augur's  skill, 


20  THE    SHRIEK    OF    PROMETHEUS. 

Gentlj  held  back  his  arm,  and  bade  him  Trait 
This  dread  portent — pronounce  no  word, 
Nor  dare  to  challenge  Jove's  own  bird. 

The  minister  of  unrelenting  fate. 

Extending  now  his  oar-like  wings, 
Twice  round  the  ship  the  monster  swings, 

As  if  prepared  to  pounce  upon  his  prej; 
His  ejes  from  forth  his  sable  shroud 
Shot  fire,  like  lightning  from  a  cloud  ; 

But  with  a  sudden  dart  he  rushed  away, 
And  clove  the  northward  distance,  where 

The  heights  of  Caucasus  their  barrier  throw, 
Where  crag  on  crag,  chaotic  giants  bare 
Their  granite  foreheads  to  the  sky,  and  sit 

In  desolate  state  beneath  their  crowns  of  snow. 
Within  these  topmost  peaks,  there  is  a  pit — 

A  dizzy,  gaunt,  precipitous  ravine, 
Upon  whose  rocky  floor  environed  round 

With  walls  of  ice — by  every  eye  unseen. 
With  adamantine  chains  Prometheus  lies  bound. 

Thither  the  ravenous  wonder  winged  his  flight — 
They  saw  him  clear  the  intervening  height, 

And  sink  behind  it : — evei-y  eye 
Is  fixed  upon  the  spot,  and  every  heart 

Throbs  with  expectant  agony. — 
But  naught  is  seen — no  sounds  impart 

The  secret  of  that  dread  abyss : — 

Still  do  they  gaze  half-willing  to  dismiss 
Their  fears  and  hopes,  for  over  plain  and  hill, 
And  smiling  ocean — all  is  hushed  and  still 

Gracious  God,  what  a  shriek ! 
The  monster  with  his  beak 


THE    SURIEK    OF    PROMETHEUS.  21 

Is  tearing  out  bis  victim's  heart  ! 
Lo !  as  that  desolating  crj 
Echoes  tVoui  the  mountains  high, 

And  throws  its  fear  afar,  a  start 
Of  horror  seems  to  darken  nature's  face, — 

Athwart  the  quaking  deep, 

Revolting  shudders  creep, 
Earth  trembles  to  her  very  base — 
Air  seems  to  swoon — the  sky  to  frown — 
The  sun  with  ghastly  glare  sinks  faster  down. — 

Hark  !  what  a  furious  clash  of  chains ! 
Victim !  thou  never  canst  unlock 
The  brazen  bolts  that  root  ihce  to  the  rock  ; 

Vain  are  thy  struggles  and  convulsive  strains. 
Ah  me !  what  dreadful  groans  arc  those 

"Wrung  from  the  very  depths  of  agonies ; — 
Now  weaker  moiinings  rise,  till,  worn  with  woes, 

The  fainting  wretch  exhausted  lies, 
And  all  again  is  grim  repose. 

But  still  with  throbbing  breasts  and  steadfast  eyes 

The  heroes  gazed  upon  the  mountain's  peak, 
Till  gorged  with  gore  they  saw  the  iLonster  rise 

With  blood-stained  claws,  and  breast,  and  beak : 
And  as  above  them  he  resumed  his  flight, 

The  arrested  vessel  shakes. 

The  flapping  main-sail  quakes, 
And  all  seemed  turned  to  statues  at  the  sight, 
All  but  the  son  of  Bacchus,  who 

With  flashing  eyes  and  visage  red, 
Again  upreared  his  bow  and  drew 

His  longest  arrow  to  the  head — 
When  from  the  eagle's  beak  a  drop  of  gore, 

(The  heart's  blood  of  Prometheus)  fell 


22  THE    BIRTH    OP   THE   INVISIBLE. 

Warm  on   his  hand  !   upon  tho  vessel's  floor 
DoAvn  falls  his  bow ; — with  shuddering  yell, 
And  haggard  eyes  still  staring  on  the  drop, 
He  staggers  back,  clasping  the  mast  to  prop 
His  fainting  limbs.     Upon  the  pilot's  forehead 
The  dews  of  terror  stood, 
And  all  in  awe-struck  mood 
Pondered  in  silence  on  that  omen  horrid. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  far  into  the  gloom 

The  monster  shot  away — but  none 
Of  the  bewildei'ed  Argonauts  resume 

The  vessel's  guidance  as  her  way  she  won. — 
None  spake — none  moved — all  sate  in  blank  dismay, 

Revolving  in  their  minds  this  dread  portent ; 
And  thus,  abandoned  to  the  sway 

Of  the  blind  wind  and  Avatery  element. 
Through  the  whole  night  the  Argo  bore 
Those  throbbin<T  hearts  along  tho  Pontic  shore. 


THE  BIRTH   OF   THE   INVISIBLE. 

0  Scene  of  enchantment !  0  vision  of  bliss ! 

What  Paradisaical  glory  is  this  ! 

A  garden  !  a  garden !   0  rapturous  sight ! 

More  stately  in  beauty,  more  rich  in  delight, 

Than  any  the  Muse,  in  her  leafiest  hour. 

Has  fabled  of  golden  Hesperian  bower, 

Or  Fortunate  Islands,  or  fields  whero  tho  blest 

In  Elysium's  sylvan  beatitudes  rest. 

Lovely  or  rare,  none  can  compare 

With  this  heaven  on  earth  so  surpassingly  fair  ! 


THE    CIRTH    OF   THE    INVISIBLE,  23 

Well,  well,  may  its  flowerets  thus  brightly  expand. 
For  they  feel  the  fresh  touch  of  the  Deity's  hand ; 
And  the  trees  that  are  rustling  their  branches  on  high, 
Arc  raising  their  arms  and  their  voice  to  the  sky, 
To  give  thanks  to  the  Lord,  at  whose  fiat  sublime 
They  sprung  from  the  earth  in  maturity's  prime ; 
And  the  newly-born  river  that  flows  at  their  feet, 
Is  lisping  an  anthem  its  Maker  to  greet. 
Lovely  or  rare,  none  can  compare 
"With  this  heaven  on  earth  so  surpassingly  fair ! 

What  odorous  incense  upsprings  from  the  sod. 
Which  has  lately  been  pressed  by  the  foot  of  its  God ! 
What  fragrance  Saboean  the  zephyrs  exhale. 
Where  celestial  breath  has  been  left  on  the  gale ! 
Behold !  how  the  fruits  deeply  blush,  Avhere  the  sun 
IL^s  stamped  his  first  kiss  upon  every  one  ! 
And  hark !  how  the  birds  in  sweet  choral  accord, 
Send  their  voices'  first  offerings  up  to  the  Lord ! 
Lovely  or  rare,  none  can  compare 
With  this  heaven  on  earth  so  surpassingly  fair ! 

No  solace  is  wanting,  no  charms  that  dispense 

A  rival  delight  to  the  soul  and  the  sense ; 

It  is  blissful  to  quaff  the  nectareous  air ; 

To  pluck  from  the  branches  ambrosial  fare ; 

To  list  to  the  music  of  birds  and  of  trees, 

The  chiming  of  waters,  the  song  of  the  breeze ; 

To  gaze  on  the  Paradise  blooming  around. 

And  scent  the  rich  breath  of  its  flowery  ground. 

Lovely  or  rare,  none  can  compare 

With  this  heaven  on  earth  so  surpassingly  f  lir ! 

The  ci-eatures  now  savage,  not  then  beasts  of  prey, 
'Mid  the  flocks  and  the  herds  fondly  pasture  and  play: 


24  THE    BIRTH    OF    THE    INVISIBLE. 

The  lion  lies  down  with  the  kidling ;  the  lamb 

Disports  -with  the  tiger ;  the  wolf  with  its  dam ; 

The  elephant,  twining  his  trunk  round  the  boughs 

Of  the  palm,  scatters  dates  for  his  friends  to  carouse; 

The  giraffe  plucks  the  high-growing  fruits ;  and  each  beast 

Makes  the  banquet  of  Nature  a  fellowship  feast. 

Lovelj  or  rare,  none  can  compare 

With  this  heaven  on  earth  so  surpassingly  fair ! 

'Tis  the  garden  of  Eden,  where  joy,  peace,  and  love, 

Join  the  creatures  below  to  their  Maker  above. 

Behold  !  from  yon  verdant  alcove,  hand  in  hand. 

Wander  Adam  and  Eve,  till  admiring  they  stand 

Beneath  the  resplendent  pre-eminent  tree 

Of  knowledge,  Avhoso  fruit  is  forbidden.     And  sec  I 

In  the  guise  of  a  serpent,  where  Satan  appears, 

And  Avhispers  melodious  guilt  in  their  cars. 

Lovely  or  rare,  none  can  compare 

With  this  heaven  on  earth  so  surpassingly  fair ! 

0  horror  of  horrors  !  the  dark  deed  is  done : 
They  have  tasted  the  fruit.     Lo  !  the  shuddering  sun 
Bushes  out  of  the  sky  ;  all  is  terror  and  gloom. 
The  tears  of  the  angeb, bewailing  man's  doom, 
Bain  woe  upon  earth ;  the  wild  animals  roar. 
As  their  fangs,  stainless  once,  are  polluted  with  gore ; 
Flocks  and  herds  fly  before  them,  astounded,  aghast; 
Shrieks  of  anguish  are  borne  on  the  terrible  blast. 
Fear  and  despair  arc  on  earth  and  in  air, 
,  For  thunder  has  ravaged  that  garden  so  fair. 

Degraded,  ashamed,  sinful  Adam  and  Eve 
From  its  precincts  are  driven  to  toil  and  to  grieve ; 
Then  earth  gave  a  groan,  a  soul-harrowing  sound, 
And  thrilled  in  her  depths  with  a  shudder  profound, 


THE    BIRTH    OF    THE    INVISIBLE.  25 

That  withered  each  Paradise  tree  to  its  root, 
And  shook  down  for  ever  and  ever  its  fruit, 
And  scattei'ed  the  rivers — till  all  was  o'erthrown, 
That  the  site  of  the  garden  might  never  be  known. 
And  Record  is  all  that  is  left,  since  the  fall. 
Its  exquisite  beauties  and  bliss  to  recall. 

Then,  then  in  the  desert's  profoundest  abyss, 

Where  the  winds  o'er  the  waste  fiercely  whistle  and  hiss, 

In  the  blackness  of  night,  with  convulsions  and  throes, 

Did  Earth  her  sepulchral  recesses  unclose, 

And  heave  up  a  monster,  the  world  to  affright. 

Terrific  of  purpose,  tremendous  in  might. 

Though  his  features  to  none  might  he  ever  reveal. 

Gladness  and  mirth  fled  from  the  earth, 

When  that  fearful  invisible  monster  had  birth. 

The  hopes  and  the  courage  of  Adam  to  daunt, 

It  ceased  not,  the  spectre,  his  footsteps  to  haunt ; 

His  children  it  touched,  and  converted  to  dust 

In  a  moment  his  tenderest  objects  of  trust ; 

Birds  and  beasts  fell  around  him ;  where'er  Adam  walked, 

Before  him,  in  fancy,  the  murderer  stalked; 

More  dread  to  the  heart  when  unseen  by  the  eye, 

'Twas  vain  from  the  phantom  to  hide  or  to  fly ; 

Wrinkles  and  bloom  met  the  same  doom — 

One  touch  of  the  Gorgon  sent  all  to  the  tomb. 

It  lurked  in  the  wave,  in  the  air,  in  the  bower — 

An  ubiquitous  curse,  an  all  withering  power — 

Still  snatching  from  Adam  his  hope  and  his  joy, 

And  scaring  with  dread  when  it  failed  to  destroy ; 

Till  weakened  with  age,  worn  with  sorrow  and  fear, 

He  felt  a  cold  hand  on  his  heart,  and  his  ear 

Was  chilled  by  the  spectre's  cadaverous  breath, 

As  in  accents  sepulchral  it  groaned — I  a.ai  Death  I 


26  THE    SANCTUARY. 


THE  S^VNCTUARY. 

In  Israel  was  many  a  refuge  city, 

Whereto   the    blameless  homicide  might  flee, 
And  claim  protection,  sustenance,  and  pity, 

Safe  from  the  blood-avenger's  enmity, 

Until  the  law's  acquittal  sent  him  thence, 

Free  from  offence. 

Round  old  cathedral,  abbey-church,  and  palace, 

Did  we  ourselves  a  sanctuary  draw, 
"Where  no  stern  creditor  could  glut  his  malice, 

And  even  criminals  might  brave  the  law ; 
Nor  judge  nor  justice  in  that  chartered  verge 
Their  rights  could  urge. 

These  times  are  gone ;  felons  and  knavish  debtors 
May  mourn  the  change,  but  who  bewails  their  case  ? 

For  Avhy  should  God  and  King  be  made  abettors 
Of  guilt  and  fraud,  the  champions  of  the  base  ? 

Never  may  such  a  desecration  stain 
Our  land  again  !     ^ 

But  all  are  not  divested  of  their  charter ; 

One  refuge  still  is  left  for  human  woes. 
Victim  of  care  !  or  persecution's  martyr  ! 

Who  seek'st  a  sure  asylum  from  thy  foes, 
Learn  that  the  holiest,  safest,  purest,  best, 
Is  man's  own  breast ! 

There  is  a  solemn  sanctuary  founded 
By  God  himself ;  not  for  transgressors  meant ; 

But  that  the  man  oppressed,  the  spirit-wounded, 
And  all  beneath  the  world's  injustice  bent, 

Might  turn  from  outward  wrong,  turmoil,  and  din, 
To  peace  within. 


THE    SANCTUARY.  27 

Each  bosom  is  a  temple  ;  when  its  altar, 
The  living  heart,  is  unprofancd  and  pure. 

Its  verge  is  hallowed  ;  none  need  fear  or  falter 
Who  thither  flj;   it  is  an  ark  secure, 

Winning,  above  a  world  o'erwhelmed  with  wrath, 
Its  peaceful  path. 

0  Bower  of  Bhss  !  0  Sanctuary  holy  ! 

Terrestrial  antepast  of  heavenly  joy ! 
Never  !  oh,  never  may  misdeed  or  folly 

My  claim  to  thy  beatitudes  destroy ! 
Still  may  I  keep  this  Paradise  unlost, 
Where'er  I'm  tost. 

Even  in  the  flesh,  the  spirit  disembodied, 

Unchecked  by  time  and  space,  may  soar  elate. 

In  silent  awe  to  commune  with  the  Godhead — 
Or  the  millennium  reign  anticipate. 

When  earth  shall  be  all  sanctity  and  love, 
Like  heaven  above. 

How  sweet  to  turn  from  anguish,  guilt,  and  madness. 
From  scenes  where  strife  and  tumult  never  cease, 

To  that  Elysian  world  of  bosom' d  gladness. 
Where  all  is  silence,  charity,  and  peace ; 

And  sheltered  from  the  storm  the  soul  may  rest 
On  its  own  nest ! 

When,  spleenful  as  the  sensitive  Mimosa, 

We  shrink  from  Winter's  touch  and  Nature's  gloom, 

There  may  we  conjure  up  a  Vallombrosa, 

Where  groves  and  bowers  in  summer  beauty  bloom, 

And  the  heart  dances  in  the  sunny  glade 
Fancy  has  made. 


28  THE    POPPY. 

But,  would  we  dedicate  to  nobler  uses, 

This  bosom  sanctuarj,  let  us  there 
Hallow  our  hearts  from  all  the  world's  abuses  ; 

While  high  and  charitable  thoughts  and  prayer, 
May  teach  us  gratitude  to  God,  combined 
With  love  of  kind. 

Reader  !  this  is  no  lay  unfelt  and  hollow, 
But  prompted  by  the  happy,  grateful  heart 

Of  one  who,  having  humbly  tried  to  follow 
The  path  he  counsels,  would  to  thee  impart 

The  love  and  holy  quiet  which  have  blest 
His  own  calm  breast. 


THE   POPPY. 


The  man  who  roams  by  wild-flowered  ditch  or  hedge 

Skirting  the  mead, 

Or  treads  the  cornfield  path — along  its  edge, 

May  mark  a  weed, 

Whose  ragged  scarlet  gear  might  well  denote 

A  road-side  beggar  in  a  soldier's  coat. 

Hence  !  terms  misplaced,  and  thoughts  disparaging 
0  Poppy  Flower ! 

Thou  art  the  Croesus  of  the  field — its  king — 

A  mystic  power, 

With  emblems  deep  and  secret  blessings  fraught, 

And  potent  properties  that  baffle  thought. 

When  thy  hues  catch,  amid  the  growing  corn. 

The  traveller's  eye, 

"Weeds  !  weeds  !"  he  cries,  and  shakes  his  head  in  scorn : 
But  when  on  high 


THE    POPPY.  2.9 

The  grain  uplifts  its  harvest-bearing  crest, 
The  Poppy's  hielden,  and  the  taunt  suppressed. 

So,  when  our  early  state  is  poor  and  mean, 

Our  portion  small, 

Our  scarlet-blushing  moral  weeds  are  seen. 

And  blamed  by  all ; 

But  as  we  rise  in  rank  we  win  repute, 

Our  faults  gold-hidden,  our  accusers  mute. 

Why  does  the  Poppy  with  its  chaliced  store 

Of  opiate  rare, 

Flush  in  the  fields,  and  grace  the  hovel  door, 
But  to  declare 

That,  from  the  City's  palaces  forlorn, 

Sleep  flies  to  bless  the  cottage  in  the  corn  ? 

And  oh !  how  precious  is  the  Anodyne 

Its  cells  exude, 

Charming  the  mind's  disquietude  malign 

To  peaceful  mood, 

Soothing  the  body's  anguish  with  its  balm. 

Lulling  the  restless  into  slumbers  calm. 

What  though  the  reckless  suicide — oppressed 

By  fell  despair, 

Turns  to  a  poison-cup  thy  chalice,  blessed 

With  gifts  so  rare  ; 

And  basely  flying,  while  the  brave  remain, 

Deserts  the  post  God  gave  him  to  maintain. 

Such  art  perverted  does  but  more  enhance 

That  higher  power 

W^hich,  planting  by  the  corn — (man's  sustenance). 
The  Poppy  flower. 


80  THE    murderer's    CONFESSION. 

Both  in  one  soil,  one  atmosphere  their  breath, 
Rears,  side  by  side,  the  means  of  life  and  death  ! 

Who,  who  can  mark  thee,  Poppy,  when  the  air 

Fans  thy  lips  bright, 

Kor  move  his  own  in  sympathetic  prayer 

To  Him  whose  might 

Combined  the  powers— 0  thought-bewildering  deed! 

Of  death — sleep — health — oblivion — in  a  weed! 


THE  MURDERER'S  CONFESSION. 

I  PAUSED  not  to  question  the  Devil's  suggestion, 

But  o'er  the  cliff,  headlong,the  living  was  thrown; 
A  scream  and  a  plashing,  a  foam  and  a  flashing. 
And  the  smothering  water  accomplished  his  slaughter. 
All  was  silent,  and  I  was  alone ! 

With  heart-thrilling  spasm  I  leant  o'er  the  chasm  ; 

There  was  blood  on  the  wave  that  closed  o'er  his  head. 
And  in  bubbles  his  breath,  as  he  struggled  with  death. 

Rose  up  to  the  surface.     I  shuddered  and  fled. 

With  footsteps  that  staggered  and  countenance  haggard, 
I  stole  to  my  dwelling,  bewildered,  dismayed. 

Till  whisperings  stealthy  said — "  Psha !  he  was  wealthy, 
Thou'rt  his  heir — no  one  saw  thee — then  be  not 
afraid." 

I  summoned  the  neighbours,  I  joined  in  their  labours. 

We   sought  for  the  missing  by  day  and  by  night ; 
We  ransacked  each  single  height,  hollow,  or  dingle. 
Till  shoreward  we  wended,  when  starkly  extended, 

His  corpse  lay  before  us — 0  God  !  what  a  sight ! 


THE    murderer's    CONFESSION.  31 

And  yet  was  tlicro  nothing  for  terror  or  loathing. 

The  blood  had  been  washed  from  his  fice  and  his  clothing, 

But  by  no  language,  no  pen,  his  life-like  wide  open 

Eyes  can  be  painted ; — 
They  stared  at  nic,  flared  at  me,  angrily  glared  at  me, 

I  felt  murder-attainted ; 
Yet  my  guilty  commotion  seemed  truth  and  devotion, 

AYhen  I  shuddered  and  fainted. 

No  hint  finds  emission  that  breathes  of  suspicion. 
None  dare  utter  a  sound  when  an  inquest  has  found 

Ilis  death  accidental ; 
Whence  then  and  wherefore,  having  nothing  to  care  for. 

These  agonies  mental  ? 
Why    grieve   and  why    sicken,    frame-withered,   soul- 
stricken  ? 

Age-paralysed,  sickly,  he  must  have  died  quickly. 

Each  day  brought  some  new  ill ; 
Why  leave  him  to  languish  and  struggle  with  anguish, 
The  deed  that  relieved  him  from  all  that  aggrieved  him, 
Was  kmdly,  not  cruel. 

In  procession  extended  a  funeral  splendid, 

With  bannered  displays  and  escutcheons  emblazoned, 

To  church  slowly  passed. 
When  a  dread  apparition  astounded  my  vision ; 
Like  an  aspen  leaf  shaking,  dumfounded  and  quaking, 

I  stood  all  aghast ! 

From  its  nailed  coffin  prison  the  corpse  had  arisen. 
And  in  all  its  shroud  vesture,  with  menacing  gesture, 
And  eye-balls  that  stared  at  me,  flared  at  me,  glared 
at  me, 


32  THE  murderer's  confession. 

It  pointed — it  flouted  its  slayer,  and  shouted 

In  accents  that  thrilled  me, 
"That  ruthless  dissembler,  that  guilt-stricken  trembler, 

Is  the  villain  who  killed  me  !" 

'Twas  fancy's  creation — mere  hallucination — 

A  lucky  delusion,  for  again  my  confusion. 

Guilt's  evidence  sinister,   seemed  to  people  and  minister 

The  painful  achievement  of  grief  and  bereavement. 

Then  why  these  probations,  these  self-condemnations 

Incessant  and  fearful  ? 
Some  with  impunity  snatch  opportunity, 
Slay — and  exult  in  concealment's  immunity  ; 
Free  from  forebodings  and  heartfelt  corrodings, 
They  fear  no  disclosure  no  public  exposure, 
And  sleeping  unhaunted  and  waking  undaunted, 

Live  happy  and  cheerful. 

To  escape  the  ideal  let  me  dwell  on  the  real ; 

I,  a  pauper  so  lately, 
In  abundance  possessing  life's  every  blessing. 
Fine  steeds  in  my  stable,  rare  wines  on  my  table, 
Servants  dressed  gaily,  choice  banquets  daily, 
A  wife  fond  and  beautiful,  children  most  dutiful, 
I,  a  pauper  so  lately,  live  rich  and  greatly. 

In  a  mansion-house  stately. 

Life's  blessings  ?     0  liar !  all  are  curses  most  dire ; 

In  the  midst  of  my  revels, 
His  eyes  ever  stare  at  me,  flare  at  me,  glare  at  me, 
Before  me  when  treadmg  my  manors  outspreading, 
There  yawns  an  abysmal  cliff  precipice  dismal. 
Isolation  has  vanished,  all  silence  is  banished, 
Where'er  I  immew  me  his  death-shrieks  pursue  me, 

I  am  hunted  by  devils. 


^  TUE   murderer's    CONFESSION.  33 

My  wine  clear  and  ruddy  seems  turbid  and  bloody, 
I  cannot  quaff  water  : — recalling  his  slaughter, 
My  terror  it  doubles — 'tis  beaded  with  bubbles, 

Each  filled  with  his  breath, 
And  every  glass  in  each  hisses — "  Assassin  ! 
My  curse  shall  affright  thee,  haunt,  harrow,  and  blight 
thee 

In  life  and  in  death  !" 

My  daughters,   their  mother,  contend  with  each  other 
Who  shall  show  most  affection,  best  soothe  my  dejec- 
tion : 
Revolting  endearments  !  their  garments  seem  cerements. 
And  I  shudder  Avith  loathing  at  their  grave-tainted 
clothing. 

Home  and  the  mercies 
That  to  others  are  dearest,  to  me  are  the  drearest 
And  deadliest  curses. 

When  free  from  this  error  I  thrill  with  the  terror, 

(Thought  horrid  to  dwell  on!) 
That  the  wretch  whom  they  cherish  may  shamefully 

perish, 
Be  publicly  gibbeted,  branded,  exhibited. 
As  a  murderous  felon ! 

0  punishment  hellish  !  the  house  I  embellish 
From  centre  to  corner  upbraids  its  adorner — 
A  door's  lowest  creaking  swells  into  a  shrieking, 
Against  me  each  column  bears  evidence  solemn, 

Each  statue  's  a  Nemesis. 
They  follow,  infest  me,  they  strive  to  arrest  me, 
Till  in  terrified  sadness  that  verges  on  madness, 

I  rush  from  the  premises. 
2* 


34  THE    MUKDERER  S    CONFESSION. 

The  countiy's  amenity  brings  no  serenity. 

Each  rural  sound  seeming  a  menace  or  screaming, 

There  is  not  a  bird  or  beast  but  cries — "  Murder  ! 

There  goes  the  ofifender  ! 
Dog  him,  waylay  him,  encompass  him,  stay  him, 

And  make  him  surrender  !" 

My  flower-beds  splendid  seem  eyes  blood-distended. 
His  eyes,  ever  flaring,  and  staring,  and  glaring  ! 
I  turn  from  them  quickly,  but  phantoms  more  sickly 

Drive  me  hither  and  thither. 
I  would  forfeit  most  gladly  wealth  stolen  so  madly. 
Quitting  grandeur  and  revelry  to  fly  from  this  devilry, 

But  whither — 0  whither? 

Hence  idle  delusions  !  hence  fears  and  confusions  ! 
Not  a  single  friend's  severance  lessens  men's  reverence, 
No  neighbour  of  rank  quits  my  sumptuous  banquets 

Without  lauding  their  donor ; 
Throughout  the  wide  county  I'm  famed  for  my  bounty, 

All  hold  me  in  honour. 

Let  the  dotard  and  craven  by  fear  be  enslaven. 

They  have  vanished  !     How  fast  fly  these  images  ghastly. 

When  in  firm  self-reliance, 
You  determine  on  treating  the  brain's  sickly  cheating. 

With  scorn  and  defiance ! 

Ha  ha !  I  am  fearless  henceforward  and  tearless. 

No  coinage  of  fancy,  no  dream's  necromancy 

Shall  sadden  and  darken — God  help  me ! — hist — hearken ! 

'Tis  the  shriek  soul-appalling  he  uttered  when  falling  ! 

By  day  thus  afirighted,  'tis  worse  when  benighted  ; 
With  the  clock's  midnight  boom,  from  the  church  on  his 
tomb, 


THE    CONTRAST.  of) 

There  comes  a  sharp  screaming  too  fearful  for  dreaming ; 
Bono  fingers  unholj  draw  the  foot  curtains  slowlj, 

0  God  !  how  they  stare  at  me,  flare  at  me,  glare  at  me, 

Those  ejcs  of  a  Gorgon  ! 
Beneath  the  clothes  sinking  with  shuddering  shrinking, 
A  mental  orgasm  and  bodily  spasm 

Convulse  every  organ. 

Nerves  a  thousand  times  stronger  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
Grief,  sickness,  compunction,  dismay  in  conjunction, 
Nights  and  days  ghost-prolific,  more  grim  and  terrific 

Than  judges  and  juries, 
Make  the  heart  writhe  and  falter  more  than  gibbet  and 

halter. 
Arrest  me,  secure  me,  seize,  handcufi",  immure  me ! 

1  own  my  transgression — will  make  full  confession. 
Quick — quick !     Let  me  plunge  in  some  dark-vaulted 

dungeon. 
Where,  tbo'  tried  and  death-fated,  I  may  not  be  baited 
By  devils  and  furies  ! 


THE   CONTRAST. 

WKITTEN   UNDEE  WINIISOE  TEEKACE,   THE   PAT   AFTEIt  THE   FUNEKAL   OF   GEOKQE 
THE  THIBD. 

I  SAW  him  last  on  this  Terrace  proud. 

Walking  in  health  and  gladness, 
Begirt  with  his  Court ;  and  in  all  the  crowd 

Not  a  single  look  of  sadness. 

Bright  was  the  sun,  and  the  leaves  were  gi'een, 

Blithely  the  birds  were  singing. 
The  cymbal  replied  to  the  tambourine, 

And  the  bells  were  merrily  ringing. 


THE    CONTRAST. 

I  have  stood  with  the  crowd  beside  his  bier, 

When  not  a  word  Avas  spoken ; 
But  every  eye  was  dim  with  a  tear, 

And  the  silence  by  sobs  was  broken. 

I  have  heard  the  earth  on  his  coffin  pour 
To  the  muffled  drum's  deep  rolling, 

While  the  minute-gun  with  its  solemn  roar, 
Drowned  the  death-bell's  tolling. 

The  time  since  he  walked  in  his  glory  thus, 
To  the  grave  till  I  saw  him  carried, 

Was  an  age  of  the  mightiest  change  to  us, 
But  to  him  a  night  unvaried. 

We  have  fought  the  fight ;— from  his  lofty  throne 
The  foe  of  our  land  we  have  tumbled ; 

And  it  gladdened  each  eye,  save  his  alone, 
For  whom  that  foe  we  humbled. 

A  daughter  beloved — a  Queen — a  son — 
And  a  son's  sole  child  have  perished; 

And  sad  was  each  heart,  save  the  only  one 
By  which  they  were  fondest  cherished. 

For  his  eyes  were  sealed,  and  his  mind  was  dark, 

And  he  sat  in  his  age's  lateness, 
Like  a  vision  throned,  as  a  solemn  mark 

Of  the  frailty  of  human  greatness. 

His  silver  beard  o'er  a  bosom  spread, 

Unvexed  by  life's  commotion. 
Like  a  yearly-lengthening  snow-drift  shed 

On  the  calm  of  a  frozen  ocean. 


THE    bard's   song   TO    HIS   DAUGHTER.  37 


3Win2 


O'er  him  oblivion's  waters  boomed, 

As  the  stream  of  time  kept  floi 
And  we  only  heard  of  our  king  when  doomed 

To  know  that  his  strength  was  going. 

At  intervals  thus  the  waves  disgorge, 

By  weakness  rent  asunder, 
A  part  of  the  wreck  of  the  Royal  George, 

For  the  people's  pity  and  wonder. 


THE  BARD'S   SONG   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER. 

0  Daughter  dear,  my  darling  child, 

Prop  of  my  mortal  pilgrimage, 
Thou  who  hast  care  and  pain  beguiled, 

And  wreathed  with  Spring  my  wintry  age — 
Through  thee  a  second  prospect  opes 

Of  life,  when  but  to  live  is  glee, 
And  jocund  joys,  and  youthful  hopes. 

Come  thronging  to  my  heart  through  thee. 

Backward  thou  lead'st  me  to  the  bowers 

Where  love  and  youth  their  transports  gave  ; 
While  forward  still  thou  strewest  flowers, 

And  bidst  me  live  beyond  the  grave. 
For  still  my  blood  in  thee  shall  flow, 

Perhaps  to  wann  a  distant  line, 
Thy  face  my  lineaments  shall  show. 

And  even  my  thoughts  survive  in  thine. 

Yes,  Daughter,  when  tliis  tongue  is  mute — 
This  heart  is  dust — these  eyes  arc  closed, 

And  thou  art  singing  to  thy  lute 
Some  stanza  by  thy  sire  composed, 


THE   FLOWER   THAT   FEELS   NOT   SPRINU. 

To  friends  around  thou  may'st  impart 
A  thought  of  him  who  wrote  the  lays, 

And  from  the  grave  mj  form  shall  start, 
Embodied  forth  to  fancy's  gaze. 

Then  to  their  memories  AYill  throng 

Scenes  shared  'vvith  him  vfho  lies  in  earth, 
The  cheerful  page,  the  lively  song. 

The  woodland  walk,  or  festive  mirth ; 
Then  may  they  heave  the  pensive  sigh 

That  friendship  seeks  not  to  control, 
And  from  the  fixed  and  thoughtful  eye 

The  half  unconscious  tears  may  roll : 

Such  now  bedew  my  cheek — ^but  mine 

Are  drops  of  gratitude  and  love, 
That  mingle  human  with  divine — 

The  gift  below,  its  source  above. — 
How  exquisitely  dear  thou  art 

Can  only  be  by  tears  expressed, 
And  the  fond  thrilling  of  my  heart 

While  thus  I  clasp  thee  to  my  breast. 


THE  FLOWER  THAT   FEELS   NOT   SPRING. 

From  the  prisons  dark  of  the  circling  bark 
The  leaves  of  tenderest  green  are  glancing ; 

They  gambol  on  high  in  the  bright  blue  sky. 
Fondly  with  spring's  young  Zephyrs  dancing. 

While  music  and  joy  and  jubilee  gush 

From  tiie  lark  and  linnet,  the  blackbird  and  thrush. 


TI[E    FLOWER    THAT    FEELS    NOT    SPRING.  39 

The  butterfly  springs  on  its  new-born  wings, 
Tlic  dormouse  starts  from  his  wintry  sleeping ; 

The  flowers  of  earth  find  a  second  birth, 
To  light  and  life  from  the  darkness  leaping  : 

The  roses  and  tulips  will  soon  resume 

Their  youth's  first  perfume  and  primitive  bloom. 

What  renders  me  sad  when  all  nature  glad 
The  heart  of  each  living  creature  cheers  ? 

I  laid  in  the  bosom  of  earth  a  blossom. 
And  watered  its  bed  with  a  father's  tears; 

But  the  grave  has  no  spring,  and  I  still  deplore 

That  the  floweret  I  planted  comes  up  no  more ! 

That  eye  whose  soft  blue,  of  the  firmament's  hue, 

Expressed  all  holy  and  heavenly  things, — 
Those  ringlets  bright,  which  scattered  a  light 

Such  as  angels  shake  from  their  sunny  wings — 
That  cheek,  in  whose  freshness  my  heart  had  trust- 
All — all  have  perished — my  daughter  is  dust ! 

Yet  the  blaze  sublime  of  thy  virtue's  prime, 
Still  gilds  my  tears  and  a  balm  supplies. 

As  the  matin  ray  of  the  god  of  day 

Brightens  the  dew  which  at  last  it  dries  : 

Yes,  Fanny  !  I  cannot  regret  thy  clay, 

When  I  think  where  thy  spirit  has  winged  its  way. 

So  wither  w^e  all — so  flourish  and  fall, 

Like  the  flowers  and  weeds  that  in  churchyards  wave ; 
Our  leaves  we  spread  over  comrades  dead. 

And  blossom  and  bloom  with  our  root  in  the  grave ; — 
Springing  from  earth  into  earth  we  are  thrust, 
Ashes  to  ashes  and  dust  to  dust  I 


40  MORAL   RUINS. 

If  death's  -worst  smart  is  to  feel  that  we  part 
From  those  we  love  and  shall  see  no  more, 

It  softens  its  sting  to  know  that  we  wing 

Our  flight  to  the  friends  who  have  gone  before ; 

And  the  grave  is  a  boon  and  a  blessing  to  me, 

If  it  waft  me,  0  Fanny,  my  daughter,  to  thee  1 


MORAL  RUINS. 


Asia's  rock-hollowed  Fanes,  first-born  of  Time, 
In  sculpture's  prime. 

Wrought  by  the  ceaseless  toil  of  many  a  race. 
Whom  none  may  trace. 

Have  crumbled  back  to  wastes  of  ragged  stone, 

And  formless  caverns,  desolate  and  lone ; — 

Egypt's  stern  Temples,  whose  colossal  mound. 

Sphinx-guarded,  frowned 

From  brows  of  Granite  challenges  to  Fate, 
And  human  hate. 

Arc  giant  ruins  in  a  desert  land, 

Or  sunk  to  sculptured  quarries  in  the  sand. 

The  marble  miracles  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
Temple  and  Dome, 

Art's  masterpieces,  awful  in  the  excess 
Of  loveliness, 

Hallowed  by  statued  Gods  which  might  be  thought 

To  be  themselves  by  the  Celestials  wrought, 


MORAL   RUINS.  41 

Where  are  they  now  ? — their  majesty  august 

Grovels  in  dust. 
Time  on  their  altars  prone  their  ruins  flings 

As  offerings, 
Forming  a  lair  whence  ominous  bird  and  brute 
Their  wailful  Misereres  howl  and  hoot. 

Down  from  its  height  the  Druid's  sacred  stone 
In  sport  is  thrown, 

And  many  a  Christian  Fane  have  change  and  hate 
Made  desolate, 

Prostrating  saint,  apostle,  statue,  bust, 

With  Pagan  deities  to  mingle  dust. 

On  these  dear  sepulchres  of  buried  days 
How  sad  to  gaze ! 

Yet,  since  their  substances  were  perishable, 
And  hands  unstable 

Upreared  their  piles,  no  wonder  that  decay 

Both  man  and  monument  should  sweep  away. 

Ah  me !  how  much  more  saddened  is  my  mood, 
How  heart-subdued, 

The  ruins  and  the  wrecks  when  I  behold 
By  time  unrolled, 

Of  all  the  Faiths  that  man  has  ever  known, 

World- worshipped  once — now  spurned  and  overthrown  1 

Religions — from  the  soul  deriving  breath. 

Should  know  no  death ; 

Yet  do  they  perish,  mingling  their  remains 
With  fallen  fanes ; 

Creeds,  canons,  dogmas,  councils,  are  the  wrecked 

And  mouldering  Masonry  of  intellect. 


42  MORAL    RUINS. 

Apis,  Osiris,  paramount  of  yore 

On  Egypt's  shore, 

Woden  and  Thor,  through  the  wide  North  adored, 
With  blood  outpoured; 

Jove,  and  the  multiform  Divinities, 

To  whom  the  Pagan  nations  bowed  their  knees 

Lo !  they  are  cast  aside,  dethroned,  forlorn. 
Defaced,  out-worn. 

Like  the  world's  childish  dolls,  which  but  insult 
Its  age  adult. 

Or  prostrate  scarecrows,  on  whose  rags  we  tread, 

With  scorn  proportioned  to  our  former  dread. 

Alas  for  human  reason  !  all  is  change 

Ceaseless  and  strange ; 

All  ages  form  new  systems,  leaving  heirs 
To  cancel  theirs : 

The  future  can  but  imitate  the  past. 

And  instability  alone  will  last. — 

Is  there  no  compass  left,  by  Avhich  to  steer 

This  erring  sphere? 

No  tie  that  may  indissolubly  bind 

To  God,  mankind  ? 

No  code  that  may  defy  time's  sharpest  tooth  ? 

No  fixed,  immutable,  unerring  truth  ? 

There  is  !  there  is  ! — one  primitive  and  sure 

Religion  pure, 
Unchanged  in  spirit,  though  its  forms  and  codes 

Wear  myriad  modes, 

Contains  all  creeds  within  its  mighty  span 

The  love  of  God,  displayed  in  love  of  Man. — 


MORAL   ALCHEMY.  43 

This  is  the  Christian's  faith,  when  rightly  read ; — 
Oh  !  may  it  spread 

Till  Earth,  redeemed  from  every  hateful  leaven. 

Makes  peace  with  heaven : 

Below — one  blessed  brotherhood  of  love ; 

One  Father — worshipped  with  one  voice— above! 


MORAL   ALCHEMY. 


TnE  toils  of  Alchemists,  whose  vain  pursuit 

Sought  to  transmute 

Dross  into  gold, — their  secrets  and  their  store 
Of  mystic  lore, 

What  to  the  jibing  modern  do  they  seem? 

An  ignis  fatuus  chase,  a  phantasy,  a  dream ! 


Yet  for  enlightened  inoral  Alchemists 

There  still  exists 

A  philosophic  stone,  whose  magic  spell 

No  tongue  may  tell, 

Which  renovates  the  soul's  decaying  health. 

And  what  it  touches  turns  to  purest  mental  wealth. 


This  secret  is  revealed  in  every  trace 

Of  Nature's  face, 

Whose  seeming  frown  invariably  tends 

To  smiling  ends. 

Transmuting  ills  into  their  opposite. 

And  all  that  shocks  the  sense  to  subsequent  delight. 


4:4  MORAL    ALCHEMY. 

Seems  Earth  unlovely  in  her  robe  of  snow  ? 

Then  look  below, 
Where  Nature  in  her  subterranean  Ark, 

Silent  and  dark, 
Already  has  each  floral  germ  unfurled 
That  shall  revive  and  clothe  the  dead  and  naked  world. 

Behold  those  perished  flowers  to  earth  consigned — 
They,  like  mankind, 

Seek  in  their  grave  new  birth.  By  nature's  power 
Each  in  its  hour 

Clothed  in  new  beauty,  from  its  tomb  shall  spring, 

And  from  its  tube  or  chalice  heavenward  incense  fling. 

Laboratories  of  a  wider  fold 

I  now  behold, 
"Where  are  prepared  the  harvests  yet  unborn 

Of  wine, 
In  those  mute  rayless  banquet-halls  I 
Myriads  of  coming  feasts  with  all  their  revelry. 

Yon  teeming  and  minuter  cells  enclose 

The  embryos 

Of  fruits  and  seeds,  food  for  the  feathered  race, 

Whose  chaunted  grace, 

Swelling  in  choral  gratitude  on  high. 

Shall  with  thanksgiving  anthems  melodize  the  sky. 

And  what  materials,  mystic  Alchemist ! 

Dost  thou  enhst 
To  fabricate  this  ever-varied  feast. 

For  man,  bird,  beast? 
Whence  the  life,  plenty,  music,  beauty,  bloom  ? 
Erom  silence,  languor,  death,  unsightliness  and  gloom  I 


MORAL    ALCHEMY.  45 

From  Nature's  magic  hand  whose  touch  makes  sadness 
Eventual  gladness, 

The  reverent  moral  Alchemist  may  learn 

The  art  to  turn 

Fate's  roughest,  hardest,  most  forbidding  dross. 

Into  the  mental  gold  that  knows  not  change  or  loss. 

Lose  we  a  valued  friend  ? — To  soothe  our  woe 
Let  us  bestow 

On  those  who  still  survive  an  added  love, 

So  shall  Ave  prove, 

Howe'er  the  dear  departed  we  deplore, 

In  friendship's  sum  and  substance  no  diminished  store. 

Lose  we  our  health  ? — Now  may  we  fully  know 

What  thanks  we  owe 

For  our  sane  years,  perchance  of  lengthened  scope ; 
Now  does  our  hope 

Point  to  the  day  when  sickness,  taking  flight, 

Shall  make  us  better  feel  health's  exquisite  delight. 

In  losing  fortune,  many  a  lucky  elf 

Has  found  himself. — 
As  all  our  moral  bitters  are  design'd 

To  brace  the  mmd, 
And  renovate  its  healthy  tone,  the  wise 
Their  sorest  trials  hail  as  blessings  in  disguise. 

There  is  no  gloom  on  earth ;  for  God  above 

Chastens  in  love, 

Transmuting  sorrows  into  golden  joy 

Free  from  alloy. 

His  dearest  attribute  is  still  to  bless. 

And  man's  most  welcome  hymn  is  grateful  cheerfulness. 


46  MORAL    COSMETICS. 


MORAL  COSIVIETICS. 


Ye  who  would  save  your  features  florid, 
Lithe  limbs,  bright  ejes,  unwrinkled  forehead 
From  age's  devastation  horrid, 

Adopt  this  plan  : — 
'Twill  make,  in  climates  cold  or  torrid, 

A  hale  old  man. 

Avoid,  in  youth,  luxurious  diet, 
Restrain  the  passions'  lawless  riot ; 
Devoted  to  domestic  quiet, 

Be  wisely  gay : 
So  shall  ye,  spite  of  age's  fiat, 

Resist  decay. 

Seek  not  in  Mammon's  worship  pleasure, 
But  find  your  richest,  dearest  treasure, 
In  books,  friends,  music,  polished  leisure  ; 

The  mind,  not  sense. 
Made  the  sole  scale  by  which  ye  measure 

Your  opulence. 

This  is  the  solace,  this  the  science. 
Life's  purest,  sweetest,  best  appliance, 
That  disappoints  not  man's  reliance, 

Whate'er  his  state ; 
But  challenges,  with  calm  defiance, 

Time,  fortune,  fate. 


THE   OLD    man's   PiEAN.  4T 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  P^EAN. 

Vainly,  ye  libellers  !  your  page 
Assaults  and  villifies  old  age, 

'Tis  still  life's  golden  aera; 
Its  pleasures,  wisely  understood. 
An  unalloyed  unfliiling  good, 

Its  evils  a  chimEera. — 

Time's  victor,  I  am  victor  still — 
Holding  the  privilege  at  will 

To  seize  him  by  the  forelock ; 
On  me  would  he  return  the  grasp. 
He  finds  there's  nothing  left  to  clasp — 

Not  even  a  single  hoar  lock. — 

We  blame  the  idolatrous  divine 
Who  gilds  and  decorates  his  shrine, 

The  Deity  neglected ; 
Yet  our  self-adoration  blind 
Is  body-worship — to  the  mind 

No  reverence  directed. 

Greybeards  there  are,  who  thinking  art 
Can  conquer  nature,  play  the  part 

Of  adolescent  friskers ; 
Swindlers  and  counterfeits  of  truth, 
They  strive  to  cheat  us  by  false  youth, 

False  teeth,  hair,  eyebrows,  whiskers. 

While  to  the  frame  due  care  I  give, 
No  masquerader  will  I  live. 
To  no  disguises  pander  ; 


48  THE    OLD    man's    FMA^. 

But  rather  seek  to  save  from  blight 
My  mind  in  all  its  pristine  plight 
Of  cheerfulness  and  candor. 

A  youthful  cheer  sustains  us  old, 
As  arrows  best  their  course  uphold 

Winged  by  a  lightsome  feather. — 
Happy  the  young  old  man  who  thus 
Bears,  like  a  human  arbutus, 

Life's  flowers  and  fruit  together. 

To  dark  oblivion  I  bequeath 

The  ruddy  cheek,  brown  hair,  white  teeth, 

And  eyes  that  brightly  twinkle  ; — 
Crows'  feet  may  plough  with  furrows  deep 
My  features,  if  I  can  but  keep 

My  mind  without  a  wrinkle. 

Young,  I  was  never  free — my  soul 
Still  mastered  by  the  stern  control 

Of  some  tyrannic  passion ; 
While  my  poor  body,  servile  tool ! 
The  livery  wore  of  fop  and  fool. 

An  abject  slave  of  fashion. 

Thanks  to  thy  welcome  touch,  old  age  1 
Which  strongest  chains  can  disengage, 

The  bondman 's  manumitted  : — 
Released  from  labour,  thraldom,  strife, 
I  pasture  in  the  park  of  life, 

Unsaddled  and  unbitted. 

If  drawn  for  the  Militia — called 
On  Juries,  where  the  heart  is  galled 
With  crime,  chicane,  disaster, 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    P.EAN.  49 

"  Begone/ '  I  cry — ■'  avaunt !  avast ! 

Thank  heaven !  I'm  sixtj,  and  at  last 

Am  of  myself  free  master." 

An  actor  once  in  every  strife 
That  agitates  the  stage  of  life, 

A  lover,  fearer,  hater, 
Now  in  senility's  snug  box 
I  sit,  aloof  from  all  their  shocks, 

A  passive,  pleased  spectator. 

Free-traders,  Chartists,  Puseyites! 
Your  warfare,  with  its  wrongs  and  rights, 

In  me  no  rage  arouses  ; 
I  read  the  news,  and  cry,  if  hurt 
At  Whigs  and  Tories  throwing  dirt, 

"A  plague  on  both  your  houses!" 

Tailors  !  avaunt  your  bills  and  spells  ! 
When  fashion  plays  on  folly's  bells, 

No  haddock  can  be  deafer ; — 
Comfort  and  neatness  all  my  care, 
I  stick  to  broadcloth,  and  forswear 

Both  Macintosh  and  Zephyr. — 

'Tis  but  our  sensual  pleasures'  zest 
That  time  can  dull ; — our  purest,  best 

Defy  decay  or  capture. 
A  landscape — Ijook — a  work  of  art — 
My  friends,  my  home — still  fill  my  heart 

With  undiminished  rapture. 

Fled  some  few  years,  old  Time  may  try 
Again  to  wake  my  rhyme,  when  I, 
Obeying  the  vagary, 


50  ANSWER   TO 


May  thus  subscribe  the  muse's  frisk: 
"  My  pensive  public — yours  ! — A  BRISK 
Young  Septuagenary  !" 


ANSWER  TO  "AN  OLD   MAN'S   P^AN." 

•WRITTEN   (invitd  Minerva.)  at  the  instigation  op  j.  u. 

Thou  greybeard  gay !  Avhose  muse — (perchance 
In  second  childhood's  ignorance.) 

Inspired  '•  An  Old  Man's  Paean," 
Hear  how  a  brother  senior  sings 
Sexagenarian  suiferings, 

In  strains  antipodean  ! 

Young,  I  could  take  a  morning's  sport ; 
Play  matches  in  the  Tennis  Court, 

So  strong  was  I  and  plastic  ; 
Dine  out,  and  yet  with  spirit  light 
And  body  unfatigued,  at  night, 

Could  sport  the  toe  fantastic. 

Behold  me  now ! — my  limbs  are  stiff: 
An  open  door,  an  east- wind's  whiff, 

Brings  sharp  rheumatic  touches ; 
A  chamber-horse  my  only  nag, 
I  mope  at  home,  or  slowly  drag 

Mj  gouty  feet  on  crutches. 

Once  I  devoured  whatever  came, 
And  never  knew,  except  by  name. 

The  heartburn,  bile,  dyspepsy : 
Now  I  must  fast — eat  what  I  hate, 
Or  all  my  ailments  aggravate, 

From  ache  to  epilepsy. 


*'  AN    OLD    man's    PiEAN."  51 

IIow  starving  Tantalus  of  old 
Was  punished  bj  the  gods,  is  told 

In  many  a  classic  stanza  ; 
And  all  must  recollect  the  wand 
That  whisked  the  viands  from  the  hand 

Of  hungry  Sancho  Panza : — 

Their  fate  without  their  fault  is  mine. 
Champagne  and  claret,  drinks  divine 

As  nectar  or  ambrosia, 
I  may  not  quaif,  but — (horrid  bore  !) 
My  sherry  from  a  cruet  pour 

And  think  of  past  symposia. 

At  home  my  wife  will  supervise 
Each  meal  I  take.     I  wish  her  eyes 

Were  sometimes  touched  with  blindness ! 
But  no — they  move  not  from  my  plate : 
God  bless  her  !  how  I  love,  yet  hate 

Her  ever  watchful  kindness. 

"  My  dear  !  you  know  you  're  bilious — pray 
Avoid  the  turtle  soup  to-day. 

And  do  not  touch  the  salmon ; 
Just  take  a  chicken  wing,  or  leg, 
But  no  rich  sauce — and  let  me  beg 

You  will  not  taste  the  gammon." 

Shell-fish — of  yore  my  favourite  food, 
Are  now  my  banc  ;  yet  crabs  eschew'd, 

Might  make  an  angel  crabbed — 
No  wonder  if  I  quit  the  treat 
Of  dainties  that  I  may  not  eat, 

Half  starving  and  half  rabid. 


52  INVOCATION. 

Debarred  by  fond  affection's  care 
From  all  my  palate  yearns  to  share, 

A  kindness  still  more  cruel 
Gives  me  carte  blanche  in  all  I  loathe 
Bread-puddings,  sago,  mutton-broth, 

Rice-milk,  and  water-gruel ! 


rN'VOCATIOX. 

[WBITTEN    rs    THE    NEIGlTEOirEnOOD   OF  ABBOTSFOED    nlTEING  THE    LABT   ILI^NESS 
or  SIB  WALTEB  SCOTT. 

Spirits  !  Intelligences  !  Passions  !  Dreams  ! 

Ghosts  !   Genii !   Sprites  ! 
Muses,  that  haunt  the  Heliconian  streams, 

Inspiring  Lights  ! 
"VYhose  intellectual  fires,  in  Scott  combined, 
Supplied  the  sun  of  his  omniscient  mind  ! 

Ye  who  have  o'er-informed  and  overwrought 

His  teeming  soul. 
Bidding  it  scatter  galaxies  of  thought 

From  pole  to  pole ; 
Enlightening  others  till  itself  grew  dark — 
A  midnight  heaven,  without  one  starry  spark  ; — 

Spirits  of  Earth  and  Air — of  Light  and  Gloom  I 

Awake !  arise ! 
Restore  the  victim  you  have  made — relume 

His  darkling  eyes. 
"Wizards !  be  all  your  magic  skill  unfurl' d, 
To  charm  to  health  the  Charmer  of  the  World ! 


INVOCATION.  53 

The  scabbard,  by  its  sword  outworn,  repair ; 

Give  to  his  lips 
Their  lore,  than  Chrysostom's  more  rich  and  rare  : 

Dispel  the  eclipse 
That  intercepts  his  intellectual  light, 
And  saddens  all  mankind  with  tears  and  night. 

Not  only  for  the  Bard  of  highest  worth, 

But  best  of  men, 
Do  I  invoke  ye,  Powers  of  Heaven  and  Earth  I 

Oh  !  where  and  when 
Shall  we  again  behold  his  counterpart — 
Such  kindred  excellence  of  head  and  heart  ? 

So  good  and  great — benevolent  as  wise — 

On  his  high  throne 
How  meekly  hath  he  borne  his  faculties  I 

How  finely  shown 
A  model  to  the  irritable  race. 
Of  generous  kindness,  courtesy,  and  grace ! 

If  he  fmisi  die,  how  great  to  perish  thus 

In  glory's  blaze ; 
A  world,  in  requiem  unanimous, 

Weeping  his  praise ! 
"While  Angels  wait  to  catch  his  parting  breath- 
W/io  would  not  give  his  life  for  such  a  death  ? 


64  THE  mother's  mistake. 


TIIE  MOTHER'S  MSTAICE. 

Heard  you  that  piercing  shriek — the  throe 
Of  fear  and  agonising  woe  ? 
It  is  a  mother,  who  with  wild 

Despairing  looks  and  gasping  breath, 
Thinks  she  behokls  her  only  child 

Extended  on  the  floor  in  death ! 
That  darling  Babe  whose  natal  cry 
Had  thrilled  her  heart  with  ecstacy, 
As  with  baptizing  tears  of  bliss 

Her  nestling  treasure  she  bedewed, 
Then  clasped  him  with  a  silent  kiss, 

And  heavenward  looked  her  gratitude  : 
That  darling  babe  who,  while  he  pressed 
His  rosebud  lips  around  her  breast, 
Would  steal  an  upward  glance,  and  bless 
With  smiles  his  mother's  tenderness  ; 
Confining  laughter  to  bis  eyes, 
Lest  he  should  lose  the  teeming  prize : — 
That  darling  Babe  who,  sleeping,  proved, 
More  than  when  waking,  how  she  loved. 
Then  was  her  ever  watchful  ear 

Prepared  to  catch  the  smallest  noise. 
Which  sometimes  hope  and  sometimes  fear 

Would  liken  to  her  infant's  voice. 
With  beating  heart  and  timid  flush, 

On  tiptoe  to  his  cot  she  crept, 
Lifting  the  curtain  with  a  hush. 

To  gaze  upon  him  as  he  slept, 
Then  would  she  place  his  outstretched  arm 
Beside  his  body,  close  and  warm  ; 


THE  mother's  mistake.  55 

Adjust  Ills  scaltoi-ccl  clothes  aright, 
And  shade  his  features  from  the  light, 
And  look  a  thousand  fond  carcssings 
And  move  her  lips  in  speechless  blessings, 
Then  steal  away  with  eyes  that  glisten, 
A"'ain  to  linger  round  and  listen. 
Oh  !  can  she  bear  to  think  that  he 
Whom  she  has  loved  so  tenderly, 
Her  only  earthly  hope  and  stay, 
For  ever  should  be  wrenched  away  ? 
No,  no  ! — to  such  o'erpowering  grief 
Oblivion  brings  a  short  relief: 
She  hears  no  sound  ;  all  objects  swim 
Before  her  sight  confused  and  dim ; 
She  feels  each  sickening  sense  decay, 
Sinks  shuddering  down,  and  faints  away  ! 

Her  child  revives — its  fit  is  o'er  ; 

When  with  affrighted  zeal  it  tries 
Cy  voice  and  kisses  to  restore 

The  mother's  dormant  faculties ; 
Till  nature's  tides  with  quickened  force 
Resume  their  interrupted  course  : 
Her  eyes  she  opens,  sees  her  boy. 

Gazes  with  sense-bewildered  start, 
Utters  a  thrilling  cry  of  joy. 

Clasps  him  in  transport  to  her  heart, 
Stamps  kisses  on  his  mouth,  his  check. 
Looks  up  to  heaven,  and  tries  to  speak ; 
But  voice  is  drowned  in  heaving  throbs, 
Outgushing  tears,  and  gasping  sobs. 


56  THE  sun's  eclipse. 


THE  SUN'S  ECLIPSE.— July  Stii,  1842. 

'Tis  cloudless  morning,  but  a  frown  misplaced, 
Cold — lurid — strange. 

The  summer  smile  from  Nature's  brow  hath  chased. 
What  fearful  change, 

What  menacing  catastrophe  is  thus 

Ushered  by  such  prognostics  ominous  ? 

Is  it  the  light  of  day,  this  livid  glare. 

Death's  counterpart : — 

What  means  the  withering  coldness  in  the  air 
That  chills  my  heart, 

And  what  the  gloom  portentous  that  hath  made 

The  glow  of  morning  a  funereal  shade  ? 

O'er  the  Sun's  disc  a  dark  orb  wins  its  slow 
Gloom-deepening  way, 

Climbs — spreads — enshrouds — extinguishes — and  lo  ! 
The  god  of  day 

Hangs  in  the  sky,  a  corpse !  the  usurper's  might 

Hath  stormed  his  throne,  and  quenched  the  life  of  light ! 

A  pall  is  on  the  earth — the  screaming  birds 

To  covert  speed ; 
Bewildered  and  aghast,  the  bellowing  herds 

Rush  o'er  the  mead ; 
While  men,  pale  shadows  in  the  ghastly  gloom, 
Seem  spectral  forms  just  risen  from  the  tomb. 

Transient,  though  total,  Avas  that  drear  eclipse ; 

With  might  restored 
The  Sun  regladdened  earth — but  human  lips 

Have  never  poured 


THE    StN'S    ECLIPSE.  57 

In  mortal  cars  the  horrors  of  the  sight 
That  thrilled  my  soul  that  memorable  night. 

To  every  distant  zone  and  fulgent  star 

Mine  eyes  could  reach, 

And  the  -wide  -waste  was  one  chaotic  war ; 
O'er  all  and  each, 

Above — beneath — around  me — everywhere, 

AYas  anarchy — convulsion — death — despair. 

'Twas  noon,  and  yet  a  deep  unnatural  night 
Enshrouded  Heaven, 

Save  where  some  orb  unsphered,  or  satellite 
Franticly  driven. 

Glared  as  it  darted  through  the  darkness  dread, 

Blind — rudderless — unchecked — unpiloted. 

A  thousand  simultaneous  thunders  crashed, 

As  here  and  there 
Some  rushing  planet  'gainst  another  dashed. 

Shooting  through  air 
Volleys  of  shattered  wreck,  Avhen,  both  destroyed. 
Foundered  and  sank  in  the  engulfing  void. 

Others,  self-kindled,  as  they  whirled  and  turned 

Without  a  guide, 
Burst  into  flames,  and  rushing  as  they  burned 

With  range  more  wide, 
Like  fire-ships  that  some  stately  fleet  surprise. 
Spread  havoc  through  the  constellated  skies. 

A\Tiile  stars  kept  falling  from  their  spheres — as  though 
The  heavens  wept  fire. 

Earth  was  a  ragmg  hell  of  war  and  woe 

Most  deep  and  dire, 
3* 


58  LACHRYMOSE    WRITERS. 

Virtue  was  vice — vice  virtue — all  was  strife, 
Brute  force  was  law — justice  the  assassin's  knife. 

From  that  fell  scene  my  space-commanding  eye 
Glad  to  withdraw, 

I  pierced  the  empyrean  palace  of  the  sky 

And  shuddering  saw 

A  vacant  throne — a  sun's  extinguished  sphere, 

All  else  a  void — dark,  desolate,  and  drear. 

"What  mean,"  I  cried,  "  these  sights  unparalleled, 
These  scenes  of  fear?" 

When  lo  !  a  voice  I'eplied,  and  Nature  held 
Her  breath  to  hear, 

"  Mortal,  the  scroll  before  thine  eyes  unfurled. 

Displays  a  sotil  eclipse — an  atheist  icorld.''^ 

I  woke — my  dream  was  o'er  !     What  ecstacy 

It  was  to  know 
That  God  was  guide  and  guardian  of  the  sky, 

That  man  below 
Deserved  the  love  I  felt — I  could  not  speak 
The  thrilling  joy,  whose  tears  were  on  my  cheek ! 


LACHRYMOSE   WRITERS. 

Ye  human  screech-owls,  who  delight 

To  herald  woe — whose  day  is  night. 
Whose  mental  food  is  misery  and  moans, 

If  ye  must  needs  uphold  the  pall,  ^ 

And  walk  at  Pleasure's  funeral. 
Be  Mutes — and  publish  not  your  cries  and  groans. 


LACHRYMOSE    WRITERS.  59 

Near  a  menagerie  to  thvcll, 

Annoyed  by  ceaseless  groan  and  yell, 
Is  sad,  altho'  we  cannot  blame  the  brutes  ; 

A  far  Avorse  neighbour  is  the  man 

"Whose  study  is  a  Caravan, 
Whence  the  caged  monster  ever  howls  and  hoots. 

Yc  say  that  Earth's  a  charnel — life 

Incessant  wretchedness  and  strife — 
That  all  is  doom  below,  and  wrath  above, 

The  Bun  and  moon  sepulchral  lamps. 

The  sky  a  vault,  whose  baleful  damps 
Soon  blight  and  moulder  all  that  live  and  love. 

Man,  as  your  diatribes  aver. 

Only  makes  reason  minister 
To  deeds  irrational  and  schemes  perverse  ; 

Human  in  name,  he  proves  in  all 

His  acts  a  hateful  animal, 
And  Avoman  (monstrous  calumny)  is  AVorse. 

This  earth,  whose  walls  are  stony  gloom. 
Whose  roof  rains  tears,  whose  floor  's  a  tomb 

With  its  chain-rattling  beach  and  lashing  waves. 
Is,  ye  maintain,  a  fitting  jail 
Where  felon  man  the  woes  may  wail. 

From  Avhich  no  prudence  guards,  no  mercy  saves. 

Even  were  it  true,  this  lachrymose 

List  of  imaginary  aaocs. 
Why  from  our  sympathy  extort  more  tears  ? 

Why  blazon  grief — Avhy  make  the  Press 

Groan  with  repinings  and  distress. 
Why  knell  despair  for  ever  in  our  ears  ? 


60  LACHRYMOSE    AVRITERS. 

Ungrateful  and  calumnious  crew, 

Whose  plaints,  as  impious  as  untrue. 
From  morbid  intellects  derive  their  birth ; 

Awaj !  begone  to  mope  and  moan, 

And  weep  in  some  asjlum  lone, 
Where  je  maj  rail  unheard  at  heaven  and  earth. 

Earth  !  on  whose  stage  in  pomp  arrayed 
Life's  jojons  interlude  is  played, 

Earth  !  with  thy  pageants  ever  new  and  bright, 
Thy  woods  and  waters,  hills  and  dales. 
How  dead  must  be  the  soul  that  fails 

To  see  and  bless  thy  beauties  infinite  1 

Man !  whose  high  intellect  supplies 

A  never-failing  Paradise 
Of  holy  and  enrapturing  pursuits, 

Whose  heart 's  a  fount  of  fresh  delight, 

Pity  the  Cynics  who  would  blight 
Thy  godlike  gifts,  and  rank  thee  with  the  brutes. 

Oh  Woman !  who  from  realms  above 

Hast  brought  to  Earth  the  heaven  of  love, 
Terrestrial  angel,  beautiful  as  pure ! 

No  pains,  no  penalties  dispense 

On  thy  traducers — their  oifence 
Is  its  own  punishment  most  sharp  and  sure. 

Father  and  God  !  whose  love  and  might 
To  every  sense  are  blazoned  bright 

On  the  vast  three-leaved  Bible — earth — sea — sky, 
Pardon  the  impugners  of  thy  laws, 
Expand  their  hearts  and  give  them  cause 

To  bless  the  exhaustless  grace  they  now  deny. 


WHY    ARE    TIIEY    SHUT?  61 


WHY  ARE  THEY  SHUT? 

The  following  Stanzas  ivcrc  composed  whllo  the  author  was  Eittins  outside  a 
country  churcli  in  Sussex,  much  regretting  that,  as  it  was  week  day,  he  could 
not  gain  admittance  to  the  sacred  edifice. 

Why  are  our  Churches  shut  with  jealous  care, 
Bolted  and  barred  against  our  bosom's  yearning, 

Save  for  the  few  short  hours  of  Sabbath  prayer, 
"With  the  bell's  tolling  steadily  returning? 

Why  are  they  shut? 

If  with  diurnal  drudgeries  o'er  wrought, 

Or  sick  of  dissipation's  dull  vagaries, 
We  wish  to  snatch  one  little  space  for  thought, 

Or  holy  respite  in  our  sanctuaries, 

Why  arc  they  shut  ? 

What !  shall  the  Church,  the  House  of  Prayer,  no  more. 
Give  tacit  notice  from  its  fastened  portals, 

That  for  six  days  'tis  useless  to  adore. 

Since  God  will  hold  no  communings  with  mortals  ? 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

Are  there  no  sinners  in  the  churchless  week, 
Who  wish  to  sanctify  a  vowed  repentance ; 

Are  there  no  hearts  bereft  which  fliin  would  seek 
The  only  balm  for  Death's  uupitying  sentence  ? 
Why  are  they  shut? 

AlTO  there  no  poor,  no  wronged,  no  heirs  of  grief, 

No  sick,  who  when  their  strength  or  courage  falters  ? 

Long  for  a  moment's  respite  or  relief, 

By  kneeling  at  the  God  of  mercy's  altars  ? 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 


62  WHY   ARE   THEY   SHUT? 

Are  tliere  no  wicked,  -whom,  if  tempted  in, 

Some  qualm  of  conscience  or  devout  suggestion 

Might  suddenly  redeem  from  future  sin? 

Oh  !  if  there  be,  how  solemn  is  the  question, 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 

In  foreign  climes  mechanics  leave  their  tasks 

To  breathe  a  passing  prayer  in  their  Cathedrals : 
There  they  have  week-day  shrines,  and  no  one  asks, 
When  ho  would  kneel  to  them,  iind  count  his  bead- 
rolls. 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 

Seeing  them  enter  sad  and  disconcerted. 

To  quit  those  cheering  fanes  with  looks  of  gladness — 
How  often  have  my  thoughts  to  ours  reverted  ! 

How  oft  have  I  exclaimed  in  tones  of  sadness, 

Why  are  they  shut? 

For  who  within  a  Parish  Church  can  stroll. 
Wrapt  in  its  week-day  stillness  and  vacation. 

Nor  feel  that  in  the  very  air  his  soul 

Receives  a  sweet  and  hallowing  lustration  ? 

Why  are  they  shut? 

The  vacant  pews,  blank  aisles,  and  empty  choir, 
All  in  a  deep  sepulchral  silence  shrouded, 

An  awe  more  solemn  and  intense  inspire, 

Than  when  with  Sabbath  congregations  crowded. 
Why  are  they  shut  ? 

The  echoes  of  our  footsteps,  as  we  tread 

On  hollow  graves,  are  spiritual  voices ; 
And  holding  mental  converse  with  the  dead, 

In  holy  reveries  our  soul  rejoices. 

Why  are  they  shut  ? 


THE   LIBELLED    BENEFACTOR.  C)S 

lare 


If  there  be  one — one  only — ^vllo  might  sh 
This  sanctifying  week-day  adoration, 

Were  but  our  churches  open  to  his  prayer, 
Why — I  demand  with  earnest  iteration — 

Why  arc  they  shut  ? 


THE  LIBELLED  P.ENEFACTOR. 

TiiEY  warned  me  by  all  that  affection  could  urge, 
To  repel  his  advances  and  fly  from  his  sight, 

They  called  him  a  fiend,  a  destroyer,  a  scourge, 
And  whispered  his  name  with  a  shudder  of  fright. 

They  said  that  disease  went  as  herald  before. 
While  sorrow  and  severance  followed  his  track, 

They  besought  me  if  ever  I  came  to  his  door, 
Not  a  moment  to  pause,  but  turn  instantly  back. 

"His  breath,"  they  exclaimed,   " is  a  pestilence  foul, 
His  aspect  more  hateful  than  language  can  tell, 

His  touch  is  pollution, — no  Gorgon  or  Ghoul 

In  appearance  and  deeds  is  more  loathsome  and  fell." 

Such  stern  prohibitions,  descriptions  so  dire, 

By  which  the  most  dauntless  might  well  be  dismayed, 

In  me  only  wakened  a  deeper  desire 

To  gaze  on  the  monster  so  darkly  portrayed. 

I  sought  him — I  saw  him — he  stood  by  a  marsh, 
Where  henbane  and  hemlock  with  poppies  entwined ; 

He  was  pale,  he  was  grave,  but  no  feature  was  harsh, 
His  eye  was  serene,  his  expression  was  kind. 


64  THE    LIBELLED    BENEFACTOR. 

"This  stigmatized  being,"  I  cried  in  surprise, 

"  Wears  a  face  most  benignant ;  but  looks  are  not  facts, 

Physiognomy  often  abuses  our  eyes  ; 

I'll  follow  his  footsteps  and  judge  by  his  acts." 

There  came  from  a  cottage  a  cry  of  alarm, 

An  infant  was  writhing  in  agonies  sore, 
His  hand  rocked  the  cradle,  its  touch  was  a  charm, 

The  babe  fell  asleep,  and  its  anguish  was  o'er. 

He  reached  a  proud  mansion  where,  worn  by  the  woe 
Of  consumption,  a  Beauty  lay  withered,  in  bed ; 

Her  pulse  he  compressed  with  his  finger,  and  lo ! 
The  complaint  of  long  years  in  a  moment  had  fled ! 

He  paused  where  he  heard  the  disconsolate  groan 
Of  a  widow  with  manifold  miseries  crushed  ; 

Where  a  pauper  was  left  in  his  sickness  to  groan: 

Both  were  healed  at  his  sight,  and  their  sorrows  were 
hushed. 

He  sped  where  a  king,  sorely  smitten  with  age. 
In  vain  sought  relief  from  the  pangs  he  endured  ; 

"  I  come,"  said  the  stranger,  "your  woes  to  assuage;" 
He  spoke,  and  the  monarch  was  instantly  cured. 

Astounded  by  deeds  which  appeared  to  bespeak 
In  the  fiend  a  benevolent  friend  of  mankind. 

From  himself  I  resolved  a  solution  to  seek 

Of  the  strange  contradictions  that  puzzled  my  mind. 

"  Chase,  mystical  being,"  I  cried,  "this  suspense; 

How  comes  it  thou'rt  blackened  by  every  tongue, 
When   in  truth  thou'rt    the  champion,  the    hope,  the 
defence 

Of  the  king  and  the  beggar,  the  old  and  the  young?" 


DIRGE   FOR   A    LIVING    POET.  65 

"Thou  bast  witnessed"' — he  answered — (his  voice  and 
his  face 

Were  all  that  is  musical,  bland,  and  benign), 
"  Not  a  tithe  of  the  blessings  I  shed  on  the  race 

Who  my  form  and  my  attributes  daily  malign. 

"  All  distinctions  of  fortune,  of  birth,  of  degree, 
Disappear  where  my  levelling  banner  I  wave ; 

From  his  desolate  dungeon  the  captive  I  free  ; 
His  fetters  I  loose  from  the  suffering  slave. 

'■  And  when  from  their  stormy  probation  on  earth, 
The  just  and  the  righteous  in  peace  I  dismiss, 

I  give  them  a  new  and  more  glorious  birth 
In  regions  of  pure  and  perennial  bliss." 

'■  Let  me  bless  thee,"  I  cried,  '•'  for  thy  mission  of  love. 
Oh  say  to  what  name  shall  I  fashion  my  breath  ?" 

"  The  Angel  of  Life  is  my  title  above. 

But  short-sighted  mortals  have  christened  me  Death  !" 


DIRGE  FOR  A  LIVING  POET.* 

» 

What  !  shall  the  mind  of  bard — historian — sage, 

Be  prostrate  laid  upon  oblivion's  bier, 
Shall  darkness  quench  the  beacon  of  our  age, 
"  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  tear  ?" 
Will  none,  with  genius  like  his  own. 
Mourn  the  fine  intellect  o'erthrown. 
That  died  in  giving  life  to  deathless  heirs? 
Are  worthier  voices  mute  ?  then  I 
The  Muse's  humblest  votary, 
Will  pour  my  wailful  dirge  and  sympathising  prayer. 
*  ■Written  during  the  last  illness  of  Southey. 


QQ  DIRGE  FOR  A  LIVING  POET. 

Well  may  I  mourn  that  mental  sun's  eclipse, 

For  in  his  study  have  I  sate  enshrined, 
And  reverently  listened  while  his  lips 
Mastered  the  master-spirits  of  mankind, 

As  his  expanding  ^Yisdom  took 

New  range  from  his  consulted  book. 
Oh,  to  what  noble  thoughts  didst  thou  give  birth. 

Thou  poet-sage,  whose  life  and  mind 

In  mutual  perfectness  combined 
The  spirit's  loftiest  flight,  with  purest  moral  worth ! 

Behold  the  withering  change  !  amid  the  rays 

That  formed  a  halo  round  those  volumed  wits, 
Amid  his  own  imperishable  lays 
In  silent,  blank  fatuity  he  sits  ! 

Seeking  a  respite  from  his  curse, 

His  body,  now  his  spirit's  hearse. 
Still  haunts  that  book-charmed  room,  for  there  alone 

Thought-gleams  illume  his  Avandering  eyes. 

As  lightnings  flicker  o'er  the  skies 
Where  the  departed  sun  in  cloudless  glory  shone. 

Oh  withering,  woeful  change — oh  living  death ! 

Lo  !  where  he  strays  at  Fancy's  aimless  beck, 
On  his  dementate  brow  the  titled  wreath, 
A  mournful  mockery  of  reason's  wreck. 

Koaming  by  Derwent's  silent  shore 

Or  dark-hued  Greta's  rushing  roar, 
A  human  statue  !     His  unconscious  stare 

Knows  not  the  once  familiar  spot. 

Knows  not  the  partner  of  his  lot. 
Who,  as  she  guides  him,  sobs  a  broken-hearted  prayer. 

Oh  flood  and  fell,  lake,  moorland,  valley,  hill  ! 

Mourn  the  dark  bard  who  sang  your  praise  of  yore. 


Campbell's  funeral.  67 

Oh  Rydal-Falls,  Lodorc,  and  Dungeon  Gill ! 

Down  the  rock's  check  your  tearful  gushes  pour. 

Ye  crag-enveloped  Tarns  that  sleep 

In  your  hushed  craters,  wake  and  weep. 
Ye  mountains !  hide  your  sorrowing  heads  in  cloud  : 

As  sobbing  winds  around  ye  moan ; 

Helvellyn !   Skiddaw !  wail  and  groan, 
And  clothe  your  giant  forms  in  vapour's  mourning  shroud. 

Why  make  appeal  to  these  ?     Y'c  good  and  wise 

Who  worshipped  at  his  intellectual  shrine, 
Ye  kindred  natures,  who  can  sympathise 
With  genius  'reft  of  reason's  light  divine, 
Ye  whom  his  learning,  virtue,  lays, 
Taught,  guided,  charmed  in  other  days, 
Let  all  your  countless  voices  be  combined. 
As  on  your  knees,  ye  pour  on  high 
This  choral  supplicating  cry — 
Restore,  restore,  0  God  !  our  poet's  wandering  mind  ! 


CAMPBELL'S  FUXERAL.* 

'Tis  well  to  see  these  accidental  great, 

Noble  by  birth,  or  Fortune's  favour  blind, 
Gracing  themselves  in  adding  grace  and  state 
To  the  more  noble  eminence  of  mind, 
And  doing  homage  to  a  bard 
Whose  breast  by  Nature's  gems  was  starred, 
Whose  patent  by  the  hand  of  God  himself  was  signed. 

*  He  was  buried  in   Poets'  Comer,  "Westminster  Abbey,  bis  pal] 
being  supported  by  six  noblemen. 


68  Campbell's  funeral. 

While  monarcbs  sleep,  forgotten,  unrevered, 
Time  trims  the  lamp  of  intellectual  fame : 
The  builders  of  the  pyramids,  who  reared 

Mountains  of  stone,  left  none  to  tell  their  name. 
Though  Homer's  tomla  was  never  known, 
A  mausoleum  of  his  own, 
Long  as  the  world  endures  his  greatness  shall  proclaim. 

What  lauding  sepulchre  does  Campbell  want  ? 

'Tis  his  to  give,  and  not  derive  renown. 
What  monumental  bronze  or  adamant, 

Like  his  own  deathless  lajs  can  hand  him  down  ? 
Poets  outlast  their  tombs :  the  bust 
And  statue  soon  revert  to  dust ; 
The  dust  they  represent  still  wears  the  laurel  crown. 

The  solid  Abbey  walls  that  seem  time-proof, 

Formed  to  await  the  final  day  of  doom ; 
The  clustered  shafts  and  arch-supported  roof, 

That  now  enshrine  and  guard  oi^r  Campbell's  tomb. 
Become  a  ruined  shattered  fane, 
May  fall  and  bury  him  again, 
Yet  still  the  bard  shall  live,  his  fame-wreath  still  shall 
bloom. 

Methought  the  monumental  eflSgies 

Of  elder  poets  that  were  grouped  around, 
Leaned  from  their  pedestals  with  eager  eyes, 
To  peer  into  the  excavated  ground 

Where  lay  the  gifted,  good,  and  brave, 
While  earth  from  Kosciusko's  grave 
Fell  on  his  coffin-plate  with  freedom-shrieking  sound. 

And  over  him  the  kindred  dust  was  strew' d 
Of  Poets'  Corner.     0  misnomer  strange  ! 


THE   LIFE    AND    DEATH.  69 

The  poet's  confine  is  the  amplitude 
Of  the  whole  earth's  illimitable  range, 

O'er  -which  his  spirit  wings  its  flight, 

Shedding  an  intellectual  light, 
A  sun  that  never  sets,  a  moon  that  knows  no  change. 

Around  his  grave  in  radiant  brotherhood, 

As  if  to  form  a  halo  o'er  his  head. 
Not  few  of  England's  master-spirits  stood, 
Bards,  artists,  sages,  reverently  led 
To  waive  each  separating  plea 
Of  sect,  clime,  party,  and  degree. 
All  honouring  him  on  whom  Nature  all  honours  shed. 

To  mo  the  humblest  of  the  mourning  band, 

Who  knew  the  bard  through  many  a  changeful  year. 
It  was  a  proud  sad  privilege  to  stand 

Beside  his  grave  and  shed  a  parting  tear. 
Seven  lustres  had  he  been  my  friend. 
Be  that  my  plea  when  I  suspend 
This  all-unworthy  wreath  on  such  a  poet's  bier. 


THE   LIFE  AND   DEATH. 
The  Life. 


Hath  Momus  descended — the  god  of  Mirth — 
To  glad  the  world  with  his  triumphs  thus  ? 

Or  is  it  a  mortal,  who  tastes  on  earth 
An  apotheosis  rapturous ! 

While  his  worshippers  hail  him  with  choral  cries, 

And  Laughter's  reverberant  ecstacies  ! 


70  THE    LIFE    AND    DEATH. 

He  moves  like  a  mental  sun,  whose  light 

Scatters  around  an  electric  ray, 
Which  every  eye  that  beholds,  is  bright, 

And  every  bosom  that  feels,  is  gay — 
A  sun  (it  is  own'd  by  a  nation's  lips), 
That  hath  ne'er  been  dimmed — never  known  eclipse  ! 

As  this  Spirit  sits  on  his  throne  elate. 

They  tender  him  homage  from  every  sphere  : 

From  the  rich,  the  noble,  the  wise,  the  great — 
Nay,  even  the  King  is  a  courtier  here  ; 

And  vassal-like   makes  his  crown  submit 

To  the  majesty  of  sceptred  Wit. 

They  press  him  with  flattering  words  and  wiles 
To  honour  and  grace  their  lordly  halls. 

And  impart  by  his  mirth,  and  songs,  and  smiles, 
A  glory  and  zest  to  their  festivals. 

For  they  know  that  his  presence  can  banish  gloom. 

And  give  light  and  life  to  the  banquet-room. 

On  what  aching  hearts  hath  he  gladness  poured ! 

In  scenes  unnumbered,  what  countless  throngs, 
From  the  public  stage  to  the  festive  board. 

Have,  enraptured,  hung  on  his  mirthful  songs ! 
At  his  wit's  incessantly  flashing  light. 
What  shouts  have  startled  the  ear  of  night ! 

Ask  you  the  name  of  the  gifted  man, 

Whose  genius  thus  could  enchant  the  world  ; 

Whose  fame  through  both  the  hemispheres  ran — 
Whose  flag  of  triumph  was  never  furled  ? — 

You  ask  it  not,  for  you  know  that  none 

But  Mathews  alone  has  such  trophies  won  ! 


THE   LIFE   AND    DEATH.  71 


TuE  Deatu. 


Hark  to  the  toll  of  the  passing  bell, 

Which  "  SAYinging  slow  -with  solemn  roar," 

Carries  the  dismal  funeral  knell 

O'er  the  thrilling  waves  of  the  Plymouth  shore ; 

And  is  borne  afar  bj  the  shuddering  breeze. 

From  "Wemburj's  cliffs  to  Mount- Edgecombe's  trees. 

Nature  appears  to  have  thrown  a  pall 

Over  that  landscape  so  rich  and  fair, 
For  a  withering  gloom  and  sadness  fall 

Alike  upon  ocean,  earth,  and  air. 
And  the  darkling  heights  in  the  distance  show 
Like  spectral  mourners,  grim  with  woe. 

The  bittern's  wail  and  the  sea-mew's  cry, 
Seem  to  share  the  deep  and  wide  distress. 

As  their  wings  thej  spread,  and  seaward  fly 
Away  from  that  scene  of  wretchedness  : 

And  the  booming  moan  of  the  distant  surge 

Falls  on  the  ear  like  a  doleful  dirge. 

Hark !  'tis  a  female  cry — 'tis  the  sound 
Of  a  widow's  heart  with  anguish  torn ; 

A  groan  succeeds,  and  the  sob  profound 
Of  a  sireless  son,  aghast,  forlorn  ! 

And  oh !  how  loving  and  loved  they  were, 

Their  own  'reft  hearts  can  alone  declare. 

Behold  !  from  St.  xVndrew's  Church  appears 

A  funeral  train  in  its  sad  array, 
Whose  mourners,  blind  in  their  statmchless  tears, 

With  faltering  footsteps  feel  their  way 
To  the  bones  and  mould  thrown  up  in  a  heap 
Beside  a  sepulchre  dark  and  deep. 


72  hope's  yearnings. 

The  coffin  is  sunk,  the  prayer  is  poured — 

"  Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust." 
They  sprinkle  earth  on  the  rattling  board. 

And  they  whose  heads  o'er  the  grave  are  thrust, 
Draw  back  at  the  sound  with  a  shuddering  start, 
For  its  awful  echoes  thrill  their  heart. 

As  if  it  were  sent  to  reveal  and  bless, 

A  ray  through  the  lurid  vapour  beams — 

Pierces  the  sepulchre's  ghastliness, 

And  lo  !  on  the  coffin's  plate  it  gleams. 

Th'  inscription  now  may  be  plainly  read — 

"  Charles  Mathews'^ — that 's  the  name  of  the  dead. 

God  !  can  it  be  ? — is  that  breath  resigned 

Which  rendered  the  brightest  joy  more  bright? 

Does  that  life  of  life,  and  mind  of  mind, 
The  circle's  soul,  and  the  world's  delight, 

Lie  stretched  in  the  coffin's  silence,  dark, 

Cold — lifeless — ghastly — stiff  and  stark  ? 

What  proofs  of  his  friendship,  wit,  and  worth, 
On  memory  crowd,  and  recall  past  years ! 

But  I  cannot  give  their  record  birth. 

For  my  heart  and  my  eyes  are  both  in  tears : 

Let  me  drop  the  pen — let  me  quit  the  lay. 

And  rush  from  my  own  sad  thoughts  away. 


HOPE'S   YEARNINGS. 


How  sweet  it  is,  when  wearied  with  the  jars 

Of  wrangling  sects,  each  soured  with  bigot  leaven, 

To  let  the  Spirit  burst  its  prison  bars 

And  soar  into  the  deep  repose  of  Heaven ! 


hope's  yearnings.  78 

How  sweet  it  is,  Avhen  sick  with  strife  and  noise 
Of  tlic  fell  brood  that  owes  to  faction  birth, 

To  turn  to  Nature's  tranquillizing  joys, 

And  taste  the  soothing  harmonies  of  Earth ! 

But  though  the  lovely  Earth,  and  Sea,  and  Air, 
Be  rich  in  joys  that  form  a  sumless  sum, 

Filled  with  Nepenthes  that  can  banish  care, 
And  Avrap  the  senses  in  Elysium, 

'Tis  sweeter  still  from  these  delights  to  turn 
Back  to  our  kind — to  watch  the  course  of  Man, 

And  for  that  blessed  consummation  yearn, 
When  Nature  shall  complete  her  noble  plan ; 

When  hate,  oppression,  vice,  and  crime,  shall  cease. 
When  War's  ensanguined  banner  shall  be  furled, 

And  to  our  moral  system  shall  extend 
The  perfectness  of  the  material  world. 

Sweetest  of  all,  when  'tis  our  happy  fate 

To  drop  some  tribute,  trifling  though  it  prove, 

On  the  thrice-hallowed  altar  dedicate 

To  Man's  improvement,  truth,  and  social  love. 

Faith  in  our  race's  destined  elevation, 

And  its  mcessant  progress  to  the  goal, 
Tends,  by  exciting  hope  and  emulation. 

To  realise  the  aspirmgs  of  the  soul. 
4 


74  TO    A    LOG    OF   WOOD    UPON    THE    FIKE. 


TO  A  LOG  OF  WOOD  UPON  THE  FIRE. 

When  Horace,  as  the  snows  descended 
On  Mount  Soracte,  recommended 

That  logs  be  doubled, 
Until  a  blazing  fire  arose, 
I  wonder  whether  thoughts  like  those 
Which  in  my  noddle  interpose, 

His  fancy  troubled. 

Poor  Log  !  I  cannot  hear  thee  sigh, 
And  groan,  and  hiss,  and  see  thee  die, 

To  warm  a  Poet, 
Without  evincing  thy  success, 
And  as  thou  wanest  less  and  less. 
Inditing  a  farewell  address 

To  let  thee  know  it. 

Peeping  from  earth — a  bud  unveiled, 
Some  "bosky  bourne"  or  dingle  hailed 

Thy  natal  hour ; 
While  infant  winds  around  thee  blew, 
And  thou  wert  fed  with  silver  dew, 
And  tender  sunbeams  oozing  through 

Thy  leafy  bower. 

Earth — water — air — thy  growth  prepared ; 
And  if  perchance  some  robin,  scared 

From  neighbouring  manor. 
Perched  on  thy  crest,  it  rocked  in  air, 
Making  his  ruddy  feathers  flare 
In  the  sun's  ray,  as  if  they  were 

A  fairy  banner. 


TO    A    LOG    OF    AVOOD    UPON    THE    FIRE.  75 

Or  if  some  nightingale  impressed 
Against  thj  branching  top  her  breast 

Heaving  with  passion, 
And  in  the  leafy  nights  of  June, 
Outpoured  her  sorrows  to  the  moon, 
Thy  trembling  stem  thou  didst  attune 

To  each  vibration. 

Thou  grew'st  a  goodly  tree,  with  shoots 
Fanning  the  sky,  and  earth-bound  roots 

So  grappled  under. 
That  thou  whom  perching  birds  could  swing, 
And  zephyrs  rock  with  lightest  wing, 
From  thy  firm  trunk  unmoved  didst  fling 

Tempest  and  thunder. 

Thine  offspring  leaves — death's  annual  prey, 
Which  Herod  Winter  tore  away 

From  thy  caressing, 
In  heaps,  like  graves,  around  thee  blown, 
Each  morn  thy  dewy  tears  have  strown, 
O'er  each  thy  branching  hands  been  thrown, 

As  if  in  blessing. 

Bursting  to  life,  another  race 

At  touch  of  Spring  in  thy  embrace. 

Sported  and  fluttered ; 
Aloft,  where  wanton  breezes  played, 
In  thy  knit  boughs  have  ringdoves  made 
Their  nest,  and  lovers  in  thy  shade 

Their  vows  have  uttered. 

How  oft  thy  lofty  summits  won 
Morn's  virgin  smile,  and  hailed  the  sun 
With  rustling  motion ; 


76  TO    A   LOG    OF   WOOD    UPON    THE   FIRE. 

How  oft  in  silent  depths  of  night, 
When  the  moon  sailed  in  cloudless  light, 
Thou  hast  stood  awe-struck  at  the  sight 
In  hushed  devotion — 

'Twere  vain  to  ask ;  for  doomed  to  fall, 
The  day  appointed  for  us  all 

O'er  thee  impended ; 
The  hatchet,  with  remorseless  blow, 
First  laid  thee  in  the  forest  low, 
Then  cut  thee  into  logs — and  so 

Thy  course  was  ended. 

But  not  thine  use — for  moral  rules, 
Worth  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools, 

Thou  may'st  bequeath  me; 
Bidding  me  cherish  those  who  live 
Above  me,  and  the  more  I  thrive, 
A  wider  shade  and  shelter  give 

To  those  beneath  me. 

So  when  death  lays  his  axe  on  me, 
I  may  resign,  as  calm  as  thee. 

My  hold  terrestrial ; 
Like  thine  my  latter  end  be  found, 
Diffusing  light  and  warmth  around, 
And  like  thy  smoke  my  spirit  bound 

To  realms  celestial. 


UNPOSSESSED    POSSESSIONS.  77 


UNPOSSESSED  POSSESSIONS. 

Whose  are  Windsor  and  Hampton,  the  pride  of  the  land, 
With  their  treasures  and  trophies  so  varied  and  grand  ? 

The  Queen's,  you    reply  : 

Deuce  a  bit !  you  and  I 
Through  their  gates,  twice  a  week,  making  privileged  way, 

Tread  their  gilded  saloons. 

View  their  portraits,  cartoons, 
And,  like  Crusoe,  are  monarchs  of  all  we  survey. 

And  whose  are  our  nobles'  magnificent  homes. 

With  their  galleries,  gardens,  their  statues  and  domes  ? 

His  Grace's, my  Lord's? 

Ay,  in  law  and  in  words, 
But  in  fact  they  are  ours,  for  the  master,  poor  wight ! 

Gladly  leaving  their  view 

To  the  visiting  crew, 
Keeps  a  dear  exhibition  for  others'  delight. 

And  whose  are  the  stag-haunted  parks,  the  domains, 
The  Avoods  and  the  waters,  the  hills  and  the  plains? 

Yours  and  mine,  for  our  eyes 

Daily  make  them  our  prize  : 
T\Tiat  more  have  their  owners? — The  care  and  the  cost ! 

Alas !  for  the  great, 

Whose  treasures  and  state, 
Unprized  when  possessed,  are  regretted  when  lost. 

When  I  float  on  the  Thames,  or  am  whisked  o'er  the  roads, 
To  the  numerous  royal  and  noble  abodes 

Whose  delights  I  may  share, 

Without  ownership's  care. 


T8  TO    THE    FURZE    BUSH. 

With  what  pitj  the  titled  and  rich  I  regard, 
And  exultinglj  cry, 
Oh  !  how  happy  am  I 

To  be  only  a  poor  unpatrician  bard ! 


TO  THE  FURZE  BUSH. 

Let  Burns  and  old  Chaucer  unite 

The  praise  of  the  Daisy  to  sing — 
Let  Wordsworth  of  Celandine  write, 

And  crown  her  the  Queen  of  the  Spring; 
The  Hyacinth's  classical  fame 

Let  Milton  embalm  in  his  verse  ; 
Be  mine  the  glad  task  to  proclaim 

The  Charms  of  untrumpeted  Furze  ! 

Of  all  other  bloom  when  bereft, 

And  Sol  wears  his  Avintery  screen, 
Thy  sunshining  blossoms  are  left 

To  light  up  the  common  and  green. 
O  why  should  they  envy  the  peer 

His  perfume  of  spices  and  myrrhs, 
When  the  poorest  their  senses  may  cheer 

With  incense  diffused  from  the  Furze  ? 

It  is  bristled  with  thorns,  I  confess  ; 

But  so  is  the  much-flattered  Rose  : 
Is  the  Sweetbriar  lauded  the  less 

Because  amid  prickles  it  grows  ? 
'Twere  to  cut  off  an  epigram's  point, 

Or  disfurnish  a  knight  of  his  spurs. 
If  we  foolishly  wished  to  disjoint 

Its  arms  from  the  lance-bearing  Furze. 


THE    FIliST    OF    MARCH.  79 

Ye  dabbloi'S  in  mines,  who  would  clutch 

The  Avealth  Avhich  their  bowels  enfold; 
See  !  Nature,  with  ^lidas-like  touch, 

Here  turns  a  whole  common  to  gold ; 
No  niggard  is  she  to  the  poor, 

But  distributes  whatever  is  hers, 
And  the  wayfaring  beggar  is  sure 

Of  a  tribute  of  gold  from  the  Furze. 

Ye  worldlings  !  learn  hence  to  divide 

Your  wealth  with  the  children  of  want, 
Nor  scorn,  in  your  fortune  and  pride, 

To  be  taught  by  the  commonest  plant. 
If  the  wisest  new  wisdom  may  draw 

From  things  humble,  as  reason  avers, 
We,  too  may  receive  Heaven's  law, 

And  beneficence  learn  from  the  Furze ! 


THE   FIRST   OF  MARCH. 

The  bud  is  in  the  bough,  and  the  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 
And  Earth  's  beginning  now  in  her  veins  to  feel  the  blood, 
Which,  warmed  by  summer  suns  in  the  alembic  of  the 

vine. 
From  her  founts  will  overrun  in  a  ruddy  gush  of  wine. 

The   perfume   and  the  bloom  that  shall   decorate  the 

flower. 
Are  quickening  in  the  gloom  of  their  subtei-ranean  bower ; 
And  the  juices  meant  to  feed  trees,  vegetables,  fruits, 
Unerringly  proceed  to  their  pre-appointed  roots. 


80  THE   FIRST    OF   MARCH. 

How  awful  is  the  thought  of  the  wonders  underground, 
Of  the  mystic  changes  wrought  in  the  silent,dark  profound ; 
How  each  thing  upward  tends  by  necessity  decreed, 
And  a  world's  support  depends  on  the  shooting  of  a  seed  ! 

The  summer's  in  her  ark,  and  this  sunny-pinion' d  day 
Is  commissioned  to  remark  whether  Winter  holds  her 

sway; 
Go  back,  thou  dove  of  peace,  with  the  myi'tle  on  thy 

wing. 
Say,  that  floods  and  tempests  cease  and  the  world  is  ripe 

for  Spring. 

Thou  hast  fanned  the  sleeping  Earth  till  her  dreams  are 

all  of  flowers, 
And  the  waters   look  in  mirth  for  their  overhanging 

bowers ; 
The  forest  seems  to  listen  for  the  rustle  of  its  leaves, 
And  the  very  skies  to  glisten  in  the  hope  of  summer 

eves. 

Thy  vivifying  spell  has  been  felt  beneath  the  wave, 
By  the  dormouse  in  its  cell,  and  the  mole  within  its  cave ; 
And  the  summer  tribes  that  creep,  or  in  air  expand  their 

wing, 
Have  started  from  their  sleep  at  the  summons  of  the 

Spring. 

The  cattle  lift  their  voices  from  the  valleys  and  the  hills, 
And  the  feathered  race  rejoices  with  a  gush  of  tuneful 

bills. 
And  if  this  cloudless  arch  fills  the  poet's  song  with  glee, 
0  thou  sunny  first  of  March  !  be  it  dedicate  to  thee. 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  CUCKOO.  81 


INVOCx\TION   TO   THE   CUCKOO. 

0,  PURSUIVANT  and  herald  of  the  spring  ! 

"Whether  thou  still  dost  d^Yell 

In  some  rose-laurellcd  dell 
Of  that  charmed  island,  whose  magician  king 

Bade  all  its  rocks  and  caves, 

Woods,  winds,  and  waves. 
Thrill  to  the  dulcet  chaunt  of  Ariel, 

Until  he  broke  the  spell. 
And  cast  his  wand  into  the  shuddering  sea — 

0  hither,  hither  fleet, 

Upon  the  south  wind  sweet. 
And  soothe  us  with  thy  vernal  melody ! 

Or  whether  to  the  redolent  Azores, 

Amid  whose  tufted  sheaves 

The  floral  goddess  weaves 
Her  garland,  breathing  on  the  glades  and  shores 

Intoxicating  air, 

Truant !  thou  dost  despair ; 
Or  lingerest  still  in  that  meridian  nest, 

Where  myriad  piping  throats 

Rival  the  warbler's  notes, 
The  safiron  namesakes  of  those  islands  blest — 

0  hither,  hither  wing 
Thy  flight,  and  to  our  longing  woodlands  smg. 

Or  in  those  sea-girt  gardens  dost  thou  dwell, 

Of  plantain,  cocoa,  palm. 

And  that  red  tree,  whose  balm 
Fumed  in  the  holocausts  of  Israel ; 

Beneath  banana  shades, 

Guava,  and  fig-tree  glades, 
4* 


82  INVOCATION  TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

Painting  thy  plumage  in  tlic  sappliirine  hue 

Thrown  from  the  heron  blue, 

Or  rays  of  the  prismatic  parroquet — 

0,  let  the  perfumed  breeze 

From  those  Hespericles 
Waft  thee  once  more  our  eager  ears  to  greet ! 

For  lo !  the  young  leaves  flutter  in  the  south, 

As  if  they  tried  their  wings. 

While  the  bee's  trumpet  brings 
News  of  each  bud  that  pouts  its  honeyed  mouth  ; 

Blue-bells,  yellow-cups,  jonquils, 

Lilies  wild  and  daffodils 
Gladden  our  meads  in  intertangled  wreath  ; 

The  sun  enamoured  lies, 

Watching  the  violets'  eyes 
On  every  bank,  and  drinks  their  luscious  breath ; 

With  open  lips  the  thorn 

Proclaims  that  May  is  born. 
And  darest  thou,  bird  of  spring,  that  summons  scorn' 

"  Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo !"  0  welcome,  welcome  notes ! 

Fields,  woods,  and  waves  rejoice 

In  that  recovered  voice. 
As  on  the  wind  its  fluty  music  floats. 

At  that  elixir  strain 

My  youth  resumes  its  reign, 
And  life's  first  spring  comes  blossoming  again : 

Oh,  wonderous  bird !  if  thus 

Thy  voice  miraculous 
Can  renovate  my  spirits'  vernal  prime, 

Nor  thou,  my  Muse,  forbear 

That  ecstacy  to  share — 
I  laugh  at  Fortune,  and  defy  old  Time. 


83 


MAN. 

VERSIFIED   VKOM   AN   APOLOGUE   I!Y   DE.    SHEKTDAN. 

Affliction  one  day,  as  she  harked  to  the  roar 

Of  the  stormy  and  strugghng  billow, 
Drew  a  beautiful  form  on  the  sands  of  the  shore, 

With  the  branch  of  a  weeping-willow. 

Jupiter,  struck  with  the  noble  plan. 

As  he  roamed  on  the  verge  of  the  ocean, 

Breathed  on  the  figure,  and  calling  it  Man, 
Endued  it  with  life  and  motion. 

A  creature  so  glorious  in  mind  and  in  frame. 
So  stamped  with  each  parent's  impression. 

Among  them  a  point  of  contention  became, 
Each  claiming  the  right  of  possession. 

He  is  mine,  said  Affliction ;  I  gave  him  his  birth, 

I  alone  am  his  cause  of  creation  ; 
The  materials  were  furnished  by  me,  answered  Earth ; 

I  gave  him,  said  Jove,  animation. 

The  gods,  all  assembled  in  solemn  divan, 
After  hearing  each  claimant's  petition, 

Pronounced  a  definitive  verdict  on  Man, 
And  thus  settled  his  fate's  disposition  : 

"  Let  Afiliction  possess  her  own  child,  till  the  -woes 

Of  life  cease  to  harass  and  goad  it ; 
After  death  give  his  body  to  Earth,  whence  it  rose, 

And  his  spirit  to  Jove  who  bestowed  it." 


84  SPORTING   WITHOUT   A    LICENSE. 


SPORTING  WITHOUT  A  LICENSE. 

There  's  a  charm  wlien  Spring  is  young, 

And  comes  laughing  on  the  breeze, 
When  each  leaflet  has  a  tongue. 

That  is  lisping  in  the  trees, 
When  morn  is  fair  and  the  sunny  air 

With  chime  of  beaks  is  ringing, 
Through  fields  to  rove  with  her  we  love, 

And  listen  to  their  singing. 

The  sportsman  finds  a  zest, 

Which  all  others  can  outvie. 
With  his  lightning  to  arrest 

Pheasants  whirring  through  the  sky ; 
With  dog  and  gun  from  dawn  of  sun 

Till  purple  evening  hovers, 
O'er  field  and  fen,  and  hill  and  glen, 

The  happiest  of  rovers. 

The  hunter  loves  to  dash 

Through  the  horn-resounding  woods. 
Or  plunge  with  fearless  splash 

Into  intercepting  floods ; 
O'er  gap  and  gate  he  leaps  elate, 

The  vaulting  stag  to  follow. 
And  at  the  death  has  scarcely  breath 

To  give  the  whoop  and  hallo ! 

By  the  river's  margin  dank, 

With  the  weeds  and  rushes  mixed, 


SPORTING    WITHOUT    A    LICENSE.  85 

Like  a  statue  on  a  bank, 

See  the  patient  angler  fixed  ! 
A  summer's  day  be  Avbiles  aAvay 

"Witbout  fatigue  or  sorrow, 
And  if  tbc  fish  sboukl  baulk  bis  wisb, 

lie  comes  again  to-morrow. 

In  air  let  pbeasants  range, 

'Tis  to  me  a  glorious  sigbt, 
"Wbicb  no  fire  of  mine  sball  change 

Into  grovelling  blood  and  night ; 
I  am  no  bound,  to  pant  and  bound 

Behmd  a  stag  that's  flying  ; 
Nor  can  I  book  a  trout  from  brook, 

On  grass  to  watch  its  dying. 

And  yet  no  sportsman  keen 

Can  sweeter  pastime  ply. 
Or  enjoy  the  rural  scene 

With  more  ecstacy  than  I : 
There's  not  a  view,  a  form,  a  hue, 

In  earth,  or  air,  or  ocean, 
That  does  not  fill  my  heart,  and  thrill 

My  bosom  with  emotion. 

0  clouds  that  paint  the  air  ! 

0  fountains,  fields,  and  gi'oves  ! 
Lights,  sounds,  and  odours  rare, 

Which  my  yearning  spirit  loves ! 
While  thus  I  feel,  and  only  steal 

From  visions  so  enchanting, 
In  tuneful  lays  to  sing  your  praise, 

What  charm  of  life  is  wanting  ? 


86  THE    QUARREL    OF 


THE  QUARREL  OF  FAITH,  HOPE,  AIvD  CHARITY. 

Once  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  traversed  the  land, 

In  sisterhood's  uninterrupted  embraces, 
Performing  their  oiEce  of  love  hand  in  hand, 

Of  the  Christian  world  the  appropriate  Graces. 

But  tiifs  since  those  primitive  days  have  occurred, 
That  threaten  to  sever  this  friendly  relation, 

As  may  well  be  surmised  when  I  state,  word  for  word. 
The  terms  of  their  latest  and  worst  altercation : 

"  Sister  Charity,  pry  thee  allow  me  to  state," 
Cries  Faith,  in  a  tone  of  contemptuous  sneering, 

"  That  while  you  aifect  to  be  meek  and  sedate, 
Your  conduct  is  cunning,  your  tone  domineering. 

"  In  the  times  that  are  gone,  my  world-harassing  name. 
Received  some  accession  of  strength  every  hour ; 

St.  Bartholomew's  Massacre  hallowed  my  fame, 
And  Sicily's  Vespers  asserted  my  power. 

"When  martyrs  in  multitudes  rushed  at  my  call, 
To  peril  their  lives  for  Theology's  sake, 

Mine  too  was  the  voice  that  cried,  '  Sacrifice  all. 
With  jail  and  Avith  gibbet,  with  faggot  and  stake.' 

"  When  the  banner  of  orthodox  slaughter  was  furled, 
And  subjects  no  more  from  each  other  dissented, 

I  set  them  at  war  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 
And  for  centuries  national  struggles  fomented. 


FAITH,    HOPE,    AND    CHARITY.  ^7 

**  What  are  all  the  great  heroes  on  history's  page, 
But  puppets  who  figured  as  I  pulled  the  strings  ? 

Crusades  I  engendered  in  every  age, 

And  Faith  was  the  leader  of  armies  and  kings. 

'•  In  those  days  of  my  glory  Hope  followed  my  track, 

In  warfare  a  firm  and  impartial  ally. 
For  she  constantly  patted  both  sides  on  the  back, 

And  promised  them  both  a  reward  in  the  sky." 

Here  Charity,  heaving  disconsolate  sighs, 
That  said  "  I  admit  what  I  deeply  deplore," 

Uplifted  to  heaven  her  tear-suflfused  eyes, 

"Which  seemed  but  to  anger  her  sister  the  more. 

"  Nay,  none  of  your  cant,  hypocritical  minx  !" 

She  cried  in  a  louder  and  bitterer  tone, 
''■  If  you  feel  any  fancy  to  whimper,  methinks 

You  might  weep  that  the  days  of  my  glory  are  gone. 

'•  What  wreck  of  my  palmy  puissance  is  left? 

What  braves  and  bullies  my  greatness  declare? 
Of  the  holy  and  dear  Inquisition  bereft. 

All  my  fierce  fulminations  are  impotent  air. 

'•  No  racks  and  no  pincers — no  limbs  piecemeal  torn, 
No  screams  of  the  tortured  my  prowess  display ; 

And  to  crown  all  these  slights,  I  am  shamefully  shorn 
Of  my  own  pi'oper  triumph,  an  auto  da  fe. 

"  The  Pope,  who  could  once,  in  my  terrible  name. 
Spread  warfare  and  havoc  all  Christendom  round, 

Is  sunk  to  such  pitiful  dotage  and  shame, 

That  the  Vatican  thunder  's  a  ridiculed  sound. 


88  THE    QUARREL    OF 

"  Nay,  even  in  England,  mj  latest  strong-hold, 
And  the  firmest  support  of  mj  paramount  sway, 

(In  Gath  or  in  Askelon  be  it  not  told,) 

All  my  orthodox  bulwarks  are  crumbling  away. 

'•'  Dissenters,  untested,  may  now,  nothing  loth, 
As  municipal  officers  feast  and  carouse ; 

And  emancipate  Catholics,  taking  the  oath, 
0  horror  of  horrors  !   may  sit  in  the  House. 

"  If  Erin  no  longer  my  altar-flame  fanned, 
By  ceasing  to  murder  for  tithe  now  and  then, 

It  might  well  be  surmised  that  my  paralysed  hand 
Had  lost  all  control  o'er  the  actions  of  men. 

"  And  what  though  each  orthodox  candidate  swears 
To  my  thirty-nine  Articles — 'tis  but  a  jest, 

Since  a  bishop  {proh  imdor  l^  ^  a  bishop,  declares 
That  such  oaths  are  a  form — never  meant  as  a  test. 

"  And  who  is  the  cause  that  I'm  laid  on  the  shelf, 
Disowned  and  deserted  by  all  but  a  few  ? 

My  downfall  and  ruin  I  trace  to  yourself, 
To  you,  I  repeat,  sister  Charity — youl 

"  Your  looks  and  your  whining  expressions  of  ruth, 
Your  appeals — ever  urged  with  insidious  wiles, 

To  reason  and  justice — to  love  and  to  truth, 
Your  tears  of  deceit,  and  your  plausible  smiles, 

"Have  inveigled  the  bulk  of  my  subjects  away, 
And  have  swelled  your  own  ranks  with  deserters 
from  mine : 

Such  conduct  is  base,  and  from  this  very  day, 

Hope  and  I  mean  to  leave  you  and  take  a  new  Line." 


FAITH,    HOPE,    AND    CHAllITY.  89 

"With  the  look  of  an  angel,  the  voice  of  a  dove, 
Thus  Charity  answered — "  Since  Concord  alone. 

Can  prosper  our  partnership  mission  of  love, 
And  exalt  the  attraction  that  calls  her  her  own, 

"I  would  not,  dear  sisters,  even  harbour  a  thought, 
That  might  peril  a  friendship  so  truly  divine ; 

And  if  in  our  feelings  a  change  has  been  wrought, 
I  humbly  submit  that  the  fault  is  not  mine. 

"  Christianity's  attributes,  holy  and  high, 

When  first,  sister  Faith,  you  delighted  to  teach, 

And  Hope  only  wafted  your  words  to  the  sky, 
I  seconded  gladly  the  labours  of  each  : 

"  But  when,  in  crusades !  you  began  to  affect 
A  thousand  disguises  and  masquerades  new, 

When  you  dressed  yourself  up  in  the  badges  of  sect, 
Nay,  even  of  Mussulman,  Pagan,  and  Jew, 

"  And  when  in  each  garb,  as  yourself  have  just  said, 
You  scattered  a  firebrand  wherever  you  went. 

While  Hope  spent  her  breath  as  she  followed  or  led, 
In  fannmg  the  flames  of  religious  dissent, 

' '  I  raised  up  my  voice  in  a  solemn  appeal 

Against  your  whole  course  of  unchristian  life, 

Tho'  its  accents  were  drowned  in  the  clashing  of  steel, 
In  the  clamour  of  councils,  and  schismatic  strife ; 

"  But  now  when  men,  turning  from  dogmas  to  deeds, 
Bear  the  scriptural  dictum  of  Jesus  in  mind, 

That  salvation  depends  not  on  canons  and  creeds. 
But  on  love  of  the  Lord,  and  the  love  of  our  kind, 


90  >\IiNii!iK. 

"  Mj  voice  can  be  heard  and  mj  arguments  weighed : 
Which  explains  why  such  numerous  converts  of  late 

Are  under  my  love-breathing  standard  arrayed, 
Who  once,  beneath  yours,  were  excited  to  hate. 

"  Superstition  must  throw  off  Religion's  disguise ; 

For  men,  now  enlightened,  not  darkling  like  owls, 
While  they  reverence  priests  who  are  holy  and  wise, 

Will  no  longer  he  hoodwinked  by  cassocks  or  cowls. 

"If,  Sisters  !  forgetting  your  primitive  troth. 

You  would  still  part  the  world  into  tyrants  and  slaves, 

What  wonder  that  sages  should  look  on  you  both 
As  the  virtues  of  dupes,  for  the  profit  of  knaves  ? 


"  You  would  separate?     Do  so — I  give  you  full  scope ; 

But  reflect,  you  are  both  of  you  naught  when  we  part ; 
While  I,  'tis  well  known,  can  supply  Faith  and  Hope, 

When  I  choose  for  my  temple  an  innocent  heart." 


WINTER. 


The  mill-wheel 's  frozen  in  the  stream. 

The  church  is  decked  with  holly, 
Misletoe  hangs  from  the  kitchen  beam, 

To  fright  away  melancholj^ ; 
Icicles  clink  in  the  milkmaid's  pail, 

Younkers  skate  on  the  pool  below, 
Blackbirds  perch  on  the  garden  rail, 

And  hark,  how  the  cold  winds  blow ! 


THE    CHOLERA    MORBUS.  91 

There  goes  the  squire  to  shoot  at  snipe, 

Here  runs  Dick  to  fetch  a  log ; 
You'd  swear  his  breath  Avas  the  smoke  of  a  pipe 

In  the  frosty  morning  fog. 
Hodge  is  breaking  the  ice  for  the  kine, 

Old  and  young  cough  as  they  go, 
The  round  red  sun  forgets  to  shine, 

And  hark,  how  the  cold  winds  blow  1 


TIIE  CHOLERA  MORBUS. 

[ox  UEAKIXQ   IT  SAID   TnAT  TOIS    DISEASE   OXLT  ATTACKED  THE    POOE.] 

It  comes  !  it  comes  !  from  England's  trembling  tongue 
One  low  and  universal  murmur  stealeth  : — 

By  dawn  of  day,  each  journal  is  o'erhung 
"With  startling  eyes,  to  read  what  it  revealeth. 

And  all  aghast,  ejaculate  one  word — 

The  Cholera — no  other  sound  is  heard  ! 

Had  Death  upon  his  ghastly  horse  revealed, 

Fi'om  his  throat-rattling  trump  a  summons  sounded, 

Not  more  appallingly  its  blast  had  pealed 

Upon  the  nation's  ear ; — awe-struck,  astounded. 

Men  strive  in  vain  their  secret  fears  to  smother, 

And  gaze  in  blank  dismay  on  one  another. 

Now  are  all  cares  absorbed  in  that  of  health  ; 

Hushed  is  the  song,  the  dance,  the  voice  of  gladness, 
While  thousands  in  the  selfishness  of  wealth. 

With  looks  of  confidence,  but  hearts  of  sadness, 
Dream  they  can  purchase  safety  for  their  lives 
By  nostrums,  drugs,  and  quack  preventitives. 


92  THE    CHOLERA    MORBUS. 

The  wretch  -who  might  have  died  in  squalid  want, 
Unseen,  unmounied  by  our  hard-hearted  hhndness, 

"Wringing  from  fear  what  pity  would  not  grant, 
Becomes  the  sudden  object  of  our  kindness, 

Now  that  his  betters  he  may  implicate, 

And  spread  infection  to  the  rich  and  great. 

Yet  still  will  wealth  presumptuously  cry, 

"  What  though  the  hand  of  death  be  thus  outstretched? 
It  will  not  reach  the  lordly  and  the  high, 

But  only  strike  the  lowly  and  the  wretched. 
Tush  !  what  have  ive  to  quail  at  ?  Let  us  fold 
Our  arms,  and  trust  to  luxury  and  gold." 

They  do  belie  thee,  honest  Pestilence  ! 

Thou  'rt  brave,  magnanimous,  not  mean  and  dastard 
Thou  'It  not  assert  thy  dread  omnipotence 

In  mastering  those  already  overmastered 
By  want  and  woe — trampling  the  trampled  crowd, 
To  spare  the  unsparing,  and  preserve  the  proud. 

Usurpers  of  the  people's  rights  !  prepare 

For  death  by  quick  atonement. — Stony-hearted 

Oppressors  of  the  poor  ! — in  time  beware  ! 
When  the  destroying  angel's  shaft  is  darted, 

'Twill  smite  the  star  on  titled  bosoms  set. 

The  mitre  pierce,  transfix  the  coronet. 

Take  moral  physic,  Pomp  !  not  drugs  and  oil, 
And  learn,  to  broad  philanthropy  a  stranger, 

That  every  son  of  poverty  and  toil, 

With  whom  thou  sharest  now  an  equal  danger, 

Should  as  a  brother  share,  in  happier  hours, 

The  blessings  which  our  common  Father  showers. 


THE   RECANTATION.  9d 

0  thou  reforming  Cholera  !  thou'rt  sent 
Not  as  a  scourge  alone,  but  as  a  teacher — 

That  thejr  who  shall  survive  to  mark  the  event 

Of  thy  dread  summons  thou  death-dealing  preacher  ! 

By  piety  and  love  of  kind  may  best 

Requite  the  love  that  snatched  them  from  the  Pest. 


THE   RECANTATION. 


Young,  saucy,  shallow  in  my  views, 
The  world  before  me — free  to  choose 

My  calling  or  profession, 
I  canvassed,  one  by  one,  the  list, 
And  thus,  a  tyro  satirist, 

Condemned  them  in  succession : 

The  Law  ? — its  sons  cause  half  our  ills, 
By  plucking  clients  in  their  bills, 

As  sparrowhawks  do  sparrows  ; 
Shrinking  the  mind  it  whets,  their  trade 
Acts  as  the  grindstone  on  the  blade, 

Which,  while  it  sharpens,  narrows. 

What  makes  the  Pleader  twist  and  tear 
Statutes  to  wrong  the  rightful  heir, 

And  bring  the  widow  sorrow  ? 
A  fee  ! — What  makes  him  change  his  tack. 
Eat  his  own  words,  and  swear  white's  black  ?- 

Another  fee  to-morrow. 

A  Curate  ? — chained  to  some  dull  spot, 
Even  at  church  he  mourns  his  lot, 
Repining  with  thanksgiving. 


94  THE    RECANTATION'. 

'Mid  stupid  clodpoles  and  their  wives, 

The  Scholar 's  buried  while  he  lives, 

And  dies  without  a  living. 

And  what  are  Bishops  ? — hypocrites 
"Who  preach  against  the  world's  delights 

In  purple  and  fine  linen ; 
Who  brand  as  crime,  in  humbler  elves, 
All  vanities,  while  they  themselves 

Have  palaces  to  sin  in. 

A  Soldier  ? — ^What !  a  bravo  paid 
To  make  man-butcher  j  a  trade — 

A  Jack-a- dandy  varlet. 
Who  sells  his  liberty — perchance 
His  very  soul's  inheritance — 

For  feathers,  lace,  and  scarlet ! 

A  Sailor  ? — worse  ! — he  's  doomed  to  trace 
With  treadmill  drudgery  the  space 

From  foremast  to  the  mizzen ; 
A  slave  to  the  tyrannic  main, 
Till  some  kind  bullet  comes  to  brain 

The  brainless  in  his  prison. 

Physic  ? — a  freak  of  times  and  modes. 
Which  yearly  old  mistakes  explodes 

For  new  ones  still  absurder : 
All  slay  their  victims — disappear, 
And  only  leave  this  doctrine  clear, 

That  "  killing  is  no  murder." 

A  Poet? — To  describe  aright 
His  lofty  hopes  and  abject  plight, 

The  quickest  tongue  would  lack  words  ! 


THE    RECANTATION.  95 

Still  like  a  ropcmakcr,  he  twines 
From  morn  to  even  lines  on  lines, 

And  still  keeps  going  backwards. 


Older  and  wiser  grown,  my  strain 
"Was  changed,  and  thus  did  I  arraign 

My  crude  and  cynic  sallies  : 
Railer  ! — like  most  satiric  scribes, 
Your  world-condemning  diatribes 

Smack  less  of  truth  than  malice. 

Abuse  condemns  not  use — all  good 
Perverted  or  misunderstood, 

May  generate  all  badness, 
Reason  itself — that  gift  divine, 
To  folly  may  be  turned  by  wine. 

By  long  excess  to  madness. 

From  the  professions  thus  portray'd, 
As  prone  to  stain,  corrupt,  degrade, 

Have  sprung,  for  many  ages, 
All  that  the  w^orld  with  pride  regards, 
Our  statesmen,  patriots,  heroes,  bards. 

Philanthropists  and  sages. 

Not  from  our  callings  do  we  take 
Our  characters : — men's  actions  make 

Or  mar  their  reputations. 
The  good,  the  bad,  the  false,  the  true. 
Would  still  be  such,  though  all  their  crew 

Should  interchange  vocations. 


06  DEATH. 

Whate'er  the  compass-box's  hue, 
Substance,  or  form — the  needle's  true, 

Alike  in  calms  or  surges  : 
Even  thus  the  virtuous  heart,  -whate'er 
Its  owner's  plight  or  calling — ne'er 

From  honour's  pole  diverges. 


DEATH. 

Fate  !  fortune  !  chance !  whose  blindness, 

Hostility  or  kindness. 
Plays  such  strange  freaks  with  human  destinies, 

Contrasting  poor  and  wealthy, 

The  life-diseased  and  healthy. 
The  blessed,  the  cursed,  the  witless,  and  the  wise, 

Ye  have  a  master — one 

Vfho  mars  what  ye  have  done, 
Levelling  all  that  move  beneath  the  sun — 
Death  ! 

Take  courage  ye  that  languish 

Beneath  the  withering  anguish 
Of  open  wrong,  or  tyrannous  deceit. 

There  comes  a  swift  redresser. 

To  punish  your  oppressor. 
And  lay  him  prostrate — helpless  at  your  feet. 

0  champion  strong ! 

Righter  of  wrong. 
Justice — equality  to  thee  belong — 
Death ! 

Where  conquest  crowns  his  quarrel, 
And  the  victor,  wreathed  with  laurel, 


DEATH.  97 

While  trembling  nations  bow  beneath  his  rod, 

On  his  guarded  throne  reposes, 

In  living  apotheosis, 
The  Lord's  anointed,  and  earth's  demigod, 

What  form  of  fear 

Croaks  in  his  ear, 
"  The  victor's  car  is  but  a  funeral  bier." — 
Death ! 

Who — spite  of  guards  and  yeomen, 

Steel  phalanx  and  cross-bowmen, 
Leaps  at  a  bound  the  shuddering  castle's  moat, 

The  tyrant's  crown  down  dashes, 

His  brandished  sceptre  smashes, 
With  rattling  fingers  grasps  him  by  the  throat, 

His  breath  out-wrings, 

And  his  corpse  down  flings 
To  the  dark  pit  where  grave- worms  feed  on  kings  ? — 
Death ! 

When  the  murderer 's  undetected. 

When  the  robber  's  unsuspected, 
And  night  has  veiled  his  crime  from  every  eye ; 

When  nothing  living  daunts  him, 

And  no  fear  of  justice  haunts  him, 
Who  wakes  his  conscience-stricken  agony  ? 

Who  makes  him  start 

With  his  withering  dart, 
And  wrings  the  secret  from  his  bursting  heart  ? 
Death ! 

To  those  who  pme  in  sorrow, 
Whose  wretchedness  can  borrow 
No  moment's  ease  from  any  human  act, 
To  the  widow  comfort-spurning, 
To  the  slave  for  freedom  yearning, 


98  THE   POET   AMONG   THE   TREES. 

To  the  diseased  with  cureless  anguish  rack'd, 

Who  brings  release 

And  whispers  peace, 
And  points  to  realms  where  pain  and  sorrow  cease  ?- 
Death ! 


THE  POET  AMONG   THE  TREES. 

Oak  is  the  noblest  tree  that  grows, 

Its  leaves  are  freedom 's  type  and  herald, 

If  we  may  put  our  faith  in  those 
Of  Literary-Fund  Fitzgerald. 

Willow's  a  sentimental  wood, 

And  many  sonneteers,  to  quicken  'em, 

A  relic  keep  of  that  which  stood 

Before  Pope's  Tusculum  at  Twickenham. 

The  Birch-tree,  with  its  pendent  curves, 

Exciting  many  a  sad  reflection, 
Not  only  present  praise  deserves, 

But  our  posterior  recollection. 

The  Banyan,  though  unknown  to  us, 

Is  sacred  to  the  Eastern  Magi ; 
Some  like  the  taste  of  Tityrus, 

"Recubans  sub  tegmine  fagi." 

Some  like  the  Juniper — in  gin  ; 

Some  fancy  that  its  berries  droop,  as 
Knowing  a  poison  lurks  within, 

More  rank  than  that  distilled  from  th'  Upa&. 


THE    POET   AMONG   THE   TREES.  99 

But  he  who  wants  a  useful  word, 

To  tag  a  line  or  point  a  moral, 
Will  find  there  "s  none  to  be  preferred 

To  that  inspiring  tree — the  Laurel. 

The  hero-butchers  of  the  sword, 

In  Rome  and  Greece,  and  many  a  far  land, 
Like  Bravos,  murdered  for  reward, 

The  settled  price — a  laurel-garland. 

On  bust  or  coin  we  mark  the  wreath, 

Forgetful  of  its  bloody  story. 
How  many  myriads  writhed  in  death. 

That  one  might  bear  this  type  of  glory. 

Caesar  first  wore  the  badge,  'tis  said, 

'Cause  his  bald  sconce  had  nothing  on  it, 

Knocking  some  millions  on  the  head, 
To  get  his  own  a  leafy  bonnet. 

Luckily  for  the  Laurel's  name, 

Profaned  to  purposes  so  frightful, 
'Twas  worn  by  nobler  heirs  of  fame. 

All  innocent,  and  some  delightful. 

"With  its  green  leaves  were  victors  crowned 

In  the  Olympic  games  for  running, 
Who  wrestled  best,  or  galloped  round 

The  Circus  with  most  speed  and  cunning. 

Apollo,  crowuied  with  Bays,  gives  laws 

To  the  Parnassian  Empyrean  ; 
And  every  schoolboy  knows  the  cause, 

Who  ever  dipped  in  Tooke's  Pantheon. 


100  THE    POET    AMONG    THE    TREES. 

Daphne,  like  many  another  fair, 
To  whom  connubial  ties  are  horrid. 

Fled  from  his  arms,  but  left  a  rare 
Memento  sprouting  on  his  forehead. 

For  Bays  did  ancient  bards  compete, 
Gathered  on  Pindus  or  Parnassus, 

They  bj  the  leaf  were  paid,  not  sheet, 
And  that 's  the  reason  thej  surpass  us. 

One  wreath  thus  twines  the  heads  about, 

Whose  brains  have  brightened  all  our  sconces, 

And  those  w^ho  others'  brains  knocked  out, 
'Cause  they  themselves  were  rojal  dunces. 

Men  fight  in  these  degenerate  days, 
For  crowns  of  gold,  not  laurel  fillets ; 

And  bards  Avho  borrow  fire  from  bays, 
Must  have  them  in  the  grate  for  billets. 

Laureats  we  have  (for  cash  and  sack) 

Of  all  calibres  and  diameters, 
But  'stead  of  poetry,  alack ! 

They  give  us  lachrymose  Hexameters. 

And  that  illustrious  leaf  for  which 

Folks  wrote  and  wrestled,  sang  and  bluster  'd, 
Is  now  boiled  down  to  give  a  rich 

And  dainty  flavour  to  our  custard  ! 


TO   THE   LADIES   OF    ENGLAND.  101 


TO  THE  LiVDDES  OF  ENGLAND. 

Beauties  ! — (for,  dressed  with  so  much  taste, 
All  may  with  such  a  term  be  graced,) — 

Attend  the  friendly  stanza. 
Which  deprecates  the  threatened  change 
Of  English  modes  for  ilishions  strange, 

And  French  extravaganza. 

What!  when  her  sons  renown  have  won 
In  arts  and  arms,  and  proudly  shone 

A  pattern  to  the  nations, 
Shall  England 's  recreant  daughters  kneel 
At  Gallic  shrines,  and  stop  to  steal 

Fantastic  innovations? 

Domestic  — simple — chaste — sedate — 
Your  fashions  now  assimilate 

Your  virtues  and  your  duties : — 
With  all  the  dignity  of  Rome, 
The  Grecian  Graces  find  a  home 

In  England's  classic  Beauties. 

When  we  behold  so  fit  a  shrine. 
We  deem  its  inmate  all  divine. 

And  thoughts  licentious  bridle ; 
But  if  the  case  be  tasteless,  rude, 
Grotesque,  and  glaring — we  conclude 

It  holds  some  worthless  idol. 

Let  Gallia's  nymphs  of  ardent  mind. 
To  every  wild  extreme  inclined, 
In  folly  be  consistent: 


102  NIGHT-SONG. 

Their  failings  let  their  modes  express, 
From  simpleness  of  soul  and  dress, 
For  ever  equi-distant. 

True  to  your  staid  and  even  port, 
Let  mad  extremes  of  every  sort 

With  steady  scorn  be  treated; 
Nor  by  art's  modish  follies  mar 
The  sweetest,  loveliest  work  by  far 

That  nature  has  completed  : — 

For  oh  !  if  in  the  world's  wide  round 
One  peerless  object  may  be  found, 

A  something  more  than  human ; 
The  faultless  paragon  confessed 

in  one  line  be  all  expressed — 

A  WELL-DRESSED  ENGLISH  WOMAN. 


NIGHT-SONG. 

■WEITTEN   AT   SEA. 


'Tis  night — my  Bark  is  on  the  Ocean, 

No  sound  I  hear,  no  sight  I  see, 
Not  even  the  darkened  waves  whose  motion 

Still  bears  me,  Fanny,  far  from  thee  ! 
But  from  the  misty  skies  are  gleaming 

Two  smiling  stars  that  look,  my  love ! 
As  if  thine  eyes,  though  veiled,  were  beaming 

Benignly  on  me  from  above. 

Good  night  and  bless  thee,  Fanny  dearest ! 

Nor  let  the  sound  disturb  thy  sleep. 
If,  when  the  midnight  wind  thou  hearest. 

Thy  thoughts  are  on  the  distant  deep : — 


THE  tSONG-VISION.  103 

Thy  Lover  there  is  safe  and  fearless, 

For  Heaven  still  guards  and  guides  mj  track; 

Nor  can  my  dreaming  heart  be  cheerless, 
For  still  to  thee  'tis  -vvafted  back. 


'Tis  sweet  on  the  benighted  billow, 

To  trust  in  Him  whom  all  adore ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  from  her  pillow 

Her  prayers  for  me  shall  Fanny  pour. 
The  winds,  self-lullabied,  are  dozing, 

The  winking  stars  withdraAV  their  light. 
Fanny  !  methinks  thine  eyes  are  closing — 

Bless  thee,  my  love  !  good  night,  good  night  I 


THE   SOXG-VISIO^. 


Oh,  warble  not  that  fearful  air ! 

For  sweet  and  sprightly  though  it  be, 
It  wakes  in  me  a  deep  despair 

By  its  unhallowed  gaiety. 

It  was  the  last  my  Fanny  sung, 
The  last  enchanting  playful  strain. 

That  breathed  from  that  melodious  tongue. 
Which  none  shall  over  hear  again. 

From  Memory's  fount  what  pleasures  past 
At  that  one  vocal  summons  flow; 

Bliss  which  I  vainly  tiiought  would  last — 
Bliss  which  but  deepens  present  woe ! 


104  THE    SONG-VISIO:^. 

Where  art  thou,  Fanny !  can  the  tomb 

Have  chilled  that  heart  so  fond  and  warm- 
Have  turned  to  dust  that  cheek  of  bloom — 
Those  eyes  of  light — that  angel  form? 

Ah  no !  the  grave  resigns  its  prey : 
See,  see  !  my  Fanny 's  sitting  there ; 

While  on  the  harp  her  fingers  play 
A  prelude  to  my  favourite  air. 

There  is  the  smile  which  ever  blessed 
The  gaze  of  mine  enamoured  eye — 

The  lips  that  I  so  oft  have  pressed 
In  tribute  for  that  melody. 

She  moves  them  now  to  sing  ! — hark,  hark  I 
But  ah  !  no  voice  delights  mine  ears  : 

And  now  she  fades  in  shadows  dark ; — 
Or  am  I  blinded  by  my  tears  ? 

Stay  yet  awhile,  my  Fanny,  stay, 

Nor  from  these  outstretched  arms  depart  ;- 

'Tis  gone  !  the  vision's  snatched  away  ! 
I  feel  it  by  my  breaking  heart. 

Lady,  forgive  this  burst  of  pain, 
That  seeks  a  sad  and  short  relief, 

In  coining  from  a  'wildered  brain 
A  solace  for  impassioned  grief 

But  sing  no  more  that  fearful  air. 
For  sweet  and  sprightly  though  it  be, 

It  wakes  in  me  a  deep  despair, 
By  its  unhallowed  gaiety. 


THE  poet's  song  to  his  wife.  105 


THE  POET'S  WINTER  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

The  birds  that  sang  so  sweet  in  the  summer  skies  are 

fled, 
And  we  trample  'neath  our  feet  leaves  that  fluttered  o'er 

our  head ; 
The  verdant  fields  of  June  wear  a  winding-sheet  of  white, 
The  stream  has  lost  its  tune,  and  the  glancing  waves 

their  light. 

We  too,  my  faithful  wife,  feel  our  winter  coming  on. 
And  our  dreams  of  early  life  like  the  summer  birds  are 

gone ; 
My  head  is  silvered  o'er,  while  thine  eyes  their  fire  have 

lost, 
And  thy  voice,  so  sweet  of  yore,  is  enchained  by  age's 

frost. 

But  the  founts  that  live  and  shoot  through  the  bosom  of 
the  earth, 

Still  prepare  each  seed  and  root  to  give  future  flowers 
their  birth ; 

And  we,  my  dearest  Jane,  spite  of  age's  wintry  blight, 

In  our  bosoms  will  retain  Spring's  florescence  and  de- 
light. 

The  seeds  of  love  and  lore  that  we  planted  in  our  youth. 
Shall  develop  more  and  more  their  attractiveness  and 

truth  ; 
The  springs  beneath  shall  run,  though  the  snows  be  on 

our  head, 
For  Love's  declming  sun  shall  with  Friendship's  rays  be 

fed. 

5* 


106  SONGS   TO   FANNY. 

Thus  as  happy  as  when  young  shall  we  both  grow  old, 

my  wife, 
On  one  bough  united  hung  of  the  fruitful  Tree  of  Life ; 
May  we  never  disengage  through  each  change  of  wind 

and  weather, 
Till  in  ripeness  of  old  age  we  both  drop  to  earth  together ! 


SONG  TO  FANNY. 

Nature  !  thy  fair  and  smiling  face 
Has  now  a  double  power  to  bless, 

For  'tis  the  glass  in  which  I  trace 
My  absent  Fanny's  loveliness. 

Her  heavenly  eyes  above  me  shine, 
The  rose  reflects  her  modest  blush, 

She  breathes  in  every  eglantine. 

She  sings  in  every  warbling  thrush. 

That  her  dear  form  alone  I  see 
Need  not  excite  surprise  in  any, 

For  Fanny 's  all  the  world  to  me, 
And  all  the  world  to  me  is  Fanny. 


SONG  TO  FANNY. 


Thy  bloom  is  soft,  thine  eyes  are  bright, 
And  rose-buds  are  thy  lips,  my  Fanny, 

Thy  glossy  hair  is  rich  with  light, 
Thy  form  unparagoned  by  any ; 


THE    BIRTHDAY    OF   SPRING.  107 

But  tbino  is  not  the  brief  array 

Of  cbarms  ■\^•bicb  time  is  sure  to  borrow, 

Which  accident  may  blight  to-day, 
Or  sickness  undermine  to-morrow. 


No — thine  is  that  immortal  grace 

Which  ne'er  shall  pass  from  thy  possession, 
That  moral  beauty  of  the  face 

Which  constitutes  its  sweet  expression ; 
This  shall  preserve  thee  what  thou  art, 

When  age  thy  blooming  tints  has  shaded, 
For  while  thy  looks  reflect  thy  heart, 

How  can  their  charms  be  ever  faded? 

Nor,  Fanny,  can  a  love  like  mine 

With  time  decay,  in  sickness  falter; 
'Tis  like  thy  beauty — half  divine. 

Born  of  the  soul,  and  cannot  alter  : 
For  when  the  body's  mortal  doom 

Our  earthly  pilgrimage  shall  sever, 
Our  spirits  shall  their  loves  resume, 

United  in  the  skies  for  ever. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  SPRING. 

Cry  Holiday !  Holiday  !  let  us  be  gay, 

And  share  in  the  rapture  of  heaven  and  earth ; 

For  see  !  what  a  sunshiny  joy  they  display, 

To  welcome  the  Spring  on  the  day  of  her  birth ; 

While  the  elements,  gladly  outpouring  their  voice. 

Nature's  Psean  proclaim,  and  in  chorus  rejoice  1 


108  THE    BIRTHDAY    OF    SPRING. 

Loud  carols  each  rill  as  it  leaps  in  its  bed  ; 

The  wind  brings  us  music  and  balm  from  the  south, 
And  Earth  m  delight  calls  on  Echo  to  spread 

The  tidings  of  joy  with  her  manj-tongued  mouth; 
O'er  sea,  and  o'er  shore,  over  mountain  and  plain, 
Far,  far  does  she  trumpet  the  jubilee  strain. 

Hark !  hark  to  the  cuckoo !  its  magical  call 
Awakens  the  flowerets  that  slept  in  the  dells ; 

The  snow-drop,  the  primrose,  the  hyacinth,  all 
Attune  at  this  summons  then-  silvery  bells. 

Hush!  ting-a-ring-ting  !  don't  you  hear  how  they  sing! 

They  are  pealing  a  fairy-like  welcome  to  Spring. 

The  love-thrilling  hedge-birds  are  wild  with  delight ; 

Like  arrows  loud  whistling  the  swallows  flit  by ; 
The  rapturous  lark,  as  he  soars  out  of  sight, 

Sends  us  sun-lighted  melody  down  from  the  sky. 
In  the  air  that  they  quafi",  all  the  feathery  throng 
Taste  the  spirit  of  Spring  that  out-bursts  in  a  song. 

To  me  do  the  same  vernal  whisperings  breathe 
In  all  that  I  scent,  that  I  hear,  that  I  meet, 

Without  and  within  me,  above  and  beneath, 
Every  sense  is  imbued  with  a  prophecy  sweet, 

Of  the  pomp  and  the  pleasantness  Earth  shall  assume 

When  adorned,  like  a  bride,  in  her  flowery  bloom. 

In  this  transport  of  nature  each  feeling  takes  part ; 

I  am  thrilling  with  gratitude,  reverence,  joy ; 
A  new  spring  of  youth  seems  to  gush  from  my  heart, 

And  the  man  's  metamorphosed  again  to  a  boy, 
Oh  !  let  me  run  wild,  as  in  earlier  years ; 
If  my  joy  be  suppressed,  I  ?hall  burst  into  tears. 


AN    OLD    man's    ASl'IRATION.  109 


AN   OLD   MAN'S  ASPIRATION. 

0  GLORIOUS  Sun !  -whose  car  sublime 

Unerring  since  the  birth  of  time, 
In  glad  magnificence  hath  run  its  race ; 

0  day's  delight — God-painted  skj, 

0  moon  and  stars,  whose  galaxy 
Illuminates  the  night  thro'  all  the  realms  of  space. 

0  poetry  of  forms  and  hues, 
Resplendent  Earth  !  whose  varied  views 

In  such  harmonious  beauty  are  combined  ; — 

And  thou,  0  palpitating  Sea, 

"Who  boldest  this  fair  mystery 
In  the  wide  circle  of  thy  thrilling  arms  enshrined — 

Hear  me,  0  hear  while  I  impart 

The  deep  conviction  of  my  heart, 
That  such  a  theatre  august  and  grand, 

Whose  author,  actors,  awful  play, 

Are  God,  mankind,  a  judgment  day. 
Was  for  some  higher  aim,  some  holier  purpose  plann'd 

1  will  not,  nay  I  cannot,  deem 
This  fair  creation's  moral  scheme, 

That  seems  so  crude,  mysterious,  misapplied, 

Meant  to  conclude  as  it  began, 

Unworthy  the  material  plan 
With  whose  perfections  rare  its  failures  are  allied. 

As  in  our  individual  fate. 
Our  manhood  and  maturer  date. 
Correct  the  faults  and  follies  of  our  youth, 


no 


So  will  the  world,  I  fondly  hope, 
With  added  years  give  fuller  scope 
To  the  display  and  love  of  wisdom,  justice,  truth. 

'Tis  this  that  makes  my  feelings  glow, 
My  bosom  thrill,  my  tears  o'erflow, 

A.t  any  deed  magnanimous — sublime ; 
'Tis  this  that  re-assures  mj  soul, 
When  nations  shun  the  forward  goal. 

And  retrograde  awhile  in  ignorance  and  crime. 

Mine  is  no  hopeless  dream  of  some 

Impeccable  Millennium, 
When  saints  and  angels  shall  inhabit  earth ; 

But  a  conviction  deep,  intense, 

That  man  was  meant  by  Providence 
Progressively  to  reach  a  higher  moral  worth. 

On  this  dear  faith' s  sustaining  truth 
Hath  my  soul  brooded  from  its  youth, 

As  heaven's  best  gift,  and  earth's  most  cheering  dower. 
0 !  may  I  still  in  life's  decline, 
Hold  unimpaired  this  creed  benign, 

And  mine  old  age  attest  its  meliorating  power  ! 


GIPSIES. 

Whether  from  India's  burning  plains, 
Or  wild  Bohemia's  domains, 

Your  steps  were  first  directed  ; 
Or  whether  ye  be  Egypt's  sons. 
Whose  stream,  like  Nile's,  for  ever  runs 

With  sources  undetected : 


GIPSIES.  Ill 

Arabs  of  Europe  !  Gipsy  race ! 
Your  Eastern  manners,  garb,  and  face, 

Appear  a  strange  cliimsera ; 
None,  none  but  you  can  now  be  styled 
Romantic,  picturesque,  and  wild, 

In  this  prosaic  asra. 

Ye  sole  freebooters  of  the  wood. 
Since  Adam  Bell  and  Robin  Hood  : 

Kept  everywhere  asunder 
From  other  tribes — King,  Church,  and  State 
Spurning,  and  only  dedicate 

To  freedom,  sloth,  and  plunder  ; 

Your  forest-camp — the  forms  one  sees 
Banditti-like  amid  the  trees, 

The  ragged  donkeys  grazing. 
The  Sybil's  eye  prophetic,  bright 
With  flashes  of  the  fitful  light 

Beneath  the  caldron  blazing, — 

O'er  my  young  mind  strange  terrors  threw  : 
Thy  History  gave  me,  Moore  Carew  ! 

A  more  exalted  notion 
Of  Gipsy  life ;  nor  can  I  yet 
Gaze  on  your  tents,  and  quite  forget 

My  former  deep  emotion. 

For  "  auld  lang  syne"  I'll  not  maltreat 
Yon  pseudo-tinker,  though  the  cheat, 

As  sly  as  thievish  Reynard, 
Instead  of  mending  kettles,  prowls, 
To  make  foul  havoc  of  my  fowls, 

And  decimate  ray  hen-yard. 


112  LIFE. 

Come  thou,  too,  black-eyed  lass,  and  try 
That  potent  skill  in  palmistry, 

Which  sixpences  can  wheedle ; 
Mine  is  a  friendly  cottage — here 
No  snarling  mastiff  need  you  fear, 

No  Constable  or  Beadle. 

'Tis  yours,  I  know,  to  draw  at  will 
Upon  futurity  a  bill, 

And  Plutus  to  importune  ; — 
Discount  the  bill — take  half  yourself, 
Give  me  the  balance  of  the  pelf, 

And  both  may  laugh  at  fortune. 


LIFE. 

There  are  who  think  this  scene  of  life 
A  frightful  gladiatorial  strife, 

A  struggle  for  existence, 
Where  class  contends  with  class,  and  each 
Must  plunder  all  within  his  reach, 

To  earn  his  own  subsistence. 

Shocked  at  the  internecine  air 
Of  this  Arena,  they  forswear 

Its  passions  and  its  quarrels  ; 
They  will  not  sacrifice,  to  live, 
All  that  to  life  its  charms  can  give, 

Nor  sell  for  bread  their  morals. 

Enthusiasts  !   check  your  reveries, 
Ye  cannot  always  pluck  at  ease 

From  Pleasure's  cornucopia; 


TO    A    LADY.  113 


Ye  cannot  alter  Nature's  plan, 
Change  to  a  perfect  being  Man, 
Nor  England  to  Utopia. 

Plunge  in  the  busy  current — stem 
The  tide  of  errors  ye  condemn, 
And  fill  life's  active  uses ; 
Begin  reform  yourselv'es,  and  live 
To  prove  that  Honesty  may  thrive 
Unaided  by  abuses. 


TO   A  LADY. 

[on   givinq  the  w-ritek   a   little  DRON'ZE  CUTID   FEOM  POMPEIL] 

Thanks  for  thy  little  God  of  Love, 
Dug  from  Pompeii — whose  fate  'tis 

Henceforth  to  be  installed  above 
My  household  Lares  and  Penates. 

Oh !  could  its  lips  of  bronze  unclose. 
How  sad  a  tale  might  they  recall ! 

How  thrill  us  with  the  appalling  woes 
Of  the  doomed  City's  burial ! 

Perchance,  on  that  benighted  day 
This  tiny  imp  the  table  graced 

Of  one  whose  mansion  might  display 
The  choicest  stores  of  classic  taste. 

Of  some  one  whose  convivial  board 
With  all  embellishments  was  deck'd, 

While  her  rich  cabinets  outpoured 
A  constant  feast  of  Intellect. 


114  TO    A    LADY. 

Of  one  who,  tho'  she  ne'er  declined 
In  social  chat  to  bear  a  part', 

Loved  more  to  fill  her  house  and  mind 
With  lettered  lore,  and  varied  art. 

Of  one  who  thus  could  give  delight 
To  guests  of  every  mental  hue, 

Whether  unlearned  or  erudite — 
Of  one,  in  short,  resembling  You ! 

To  the  dark  tomb,  thou  Pagan  Sprite ! 

For  many  centuries  consigned. 
Thrice  welcome  to  this  world  of  light. 

Where  worshippers  thou  still  wilt  find. 

Methinks  thy  new  abode  is  one 

Thou  wilt  not,  Cupid  !  disapprove, 

For  all  my  married  life  has  run 

A  lengthened  course  of  constant  love. 

Prompt  me,  thou  type  of  higher  hope ! 

To  spread  that  love  from  me  and  mine, 
Until,  in  its  ascending  scope, 

It  soar  to  social  and  divine. 


So,  little  Elf!  shalt  thou  be 

With  doubled  favour  by  thine  owner, 
Both  as  a  tutelary  guide, 

And  a  memorial  of  thy  donor. 


THE    CHARMS    OF    LIFE.  115 


THE  CHAKMS  OF  LIFE. 

What  hath  life  to  charm  us  ?  Flowers 

AVhose  sweet  lips  have  ever  sung 
Carols  from  the  fields  and  bowers, 

In  perfume's  universal  tongue. 
Choral  fairies  bright  and  merry  ! 

Hark  !  I  hear  your  silver  bells, 

Chiming  from  the  tufted  dells 
A  ]May-day  welcome — hey  down  derry  1 

Hark  again !  those  jocund  calls 

Are  Echo's  voice,  who  loves  to  mock 

The  laughter  of  the  waterfalls 

That  leap  for  joy  from  rock  to  rock. 

And  now  the  winds  their  organ  ply, 
Tuned  to  the  music  of  the  birds, 
And  rustling  leaves  and  lowing  herds, 

0  !  what  a  thrilling  harmony  ! 

Joys  there  are  of  wider  scope, — 

Our  social  and  domestic  ties, 
Faith,  love,  charity,  and  hope. 

With  all  their  mingled  ecstacies. 
And  mental  bliss  that  never  cloys, 

But  charms  the  head  and  thrills  the  heart ; 

Life !  how  grand  a  boon  thou  art ! 
Life  !  how  sumless  arc  thy  joys ! 


116  A    HINT    TO    CYNICS. MUSIC. 


A  HIXT  TO  CYNICS. 

Youth,  beauty,  love,  delight, 

All  blessings  bright  and  dear, 

Like  shooting  stars  by  night, 
Flash,  fall,  and  disappear. 

Let  Cynics  doubt  their  worth. 
Because  they  're  born  to  die. 

The  wiser  sons  of  earth 

Will  snatch  them  ere  they  fly. 

Tho'  mingled  with  alloy, 

We  throw  not  gold  away ; 

Then  why  reject  the  joy 

That 's  blended  with  decay  ? 


MUSIC. 

Peace  to  the  tenants  of  the  tomb 

Whom  oft  we  met  in  hall  and  bower. 
Peace  to  the  buried  friends  with  whom 

We  shared  the  charm  of  Music's  hour ; 
Tho'  dead,  they  are  not  mute,  for  still 

Does  memory  wake  some  favoured  strain 
That  makes  our  yearning  bosoms  thrill 

As  if  they  lived  and  sang  again. 

Health  to  the  friends  we  still  possess ; 

0  !  long  and  often  may  we  meet, 
Our  yet  remaining  ygars  to  bless 

With  Music's  pleasures  pure  and  sweet; 


THE    bard's    inscription.  117 

And  praises  to  the  po^ver  divine 

That  gave  to  man  the  precious  boon, 

Which  make's  life's  social  evening  shine 
As  brightly  as  its  morn  and  noon. 


THE  BARD'S  INSCRIPTION  IN  HIS  DAUGHTER'S 
ALBUM. 

The  thoughtful  reader  here  may  see 
A  little  world's  epitome 

In  turning  each  successive  folio ; — 
Names,  drawings,  music,  poems,  prose, 
From  kindred  and  from  friends  compose 

This  Album's  multifarious  olio. 

Its  owner,  from  her  circle  wide 

Of  friends,  may  here  survey  with  pride 

A  cherished  tributary  Cento ; 
And  when  they  're  absent — altered — dead — 
Each  contribution  will  be  read 

With  double  zest  as  a  memento. 

Here  with  a  smile  will  she  recall 
The  walk,  the  concert,  or  the  ball. 

Shared  with  the  young  and  merry-hearted  ; — 
And  here,  perchance,  while  brooding  o'er 
The  song  of  one  who  sings  no  more, 

A  tear  may  drop  for  the  departed. 

Yet — daughter  dear  !  my  heart  foretells 
That  thou  wilt  quit  all  other  spells. 

Of  friends,  however  loved — and  rather 
Hang  o'er  the  page  that  thus  records. 
With  feelings  ill-expressed  by  words. 

The  fervent  blessing  of  a  Father  ! 


118  A^"TI-COPvN-LAW    BAZAAE,    STANZAS. 


STANZAS 

■WEITTEIf   FOE  THE  BAZAAE  OF   THE    NATIONAL   ANTI-C03JN    LA^W   LEAGTTE,   COVENT 
GABDEX  THEAT3E,  lS-15. 

Why  with  its  ring  has  the  connecting  sea 

Married  the  Hemispheres  and  joined  their  hands, 

Why  has  the  jSIagnet's  guiding  ministry 

]\Iade  paths  athwart  the  deep  to  distant  lands  ? 

Why  are  the  winds  to  our  control  resigned  ? 

Why  does  resistless  steam  our  will  obey, 
Why  are  all  arts,  all  elements,  combined 

To  speed  us  o'er  the  ocean- world's  highway  ? 

That  from  wide  earth,  and  from  the  watery  waste, 
Creation's  sacred  flag  may  be  unfurled. 

Whereon  the  finger  of  the  Lord  hath  traced 

Creation's   law — "  Free   trade  with  all  the 
World  !" 

Thus  nature — her  maternal  hands  untied, 

Shall  scatter  fresh  supplies  of  wealth  and  food. 

And  from  each  varied  soil  and  clime  provide 

Some  separate  blessing  for  the  common  good. 

So  shall  the  severed  races  of  mankind, 

Bidding  all  barriers  and  restrictions  cease, 

By  constant  intercourse  become  combined 
In  one  vast  family  of  love  and  peace. 

Let  no  man  part  whom  God  would  thus  unite ! 

They  who  would  speed  this  high  and  holy  aatn, 
Leagued  in  the  cause  of  universal  right. 

All  factious  ends,  all  party  views  disclaim. 


A   HINT   TO   THE   FARMERS.  119 

Their  -vveapons,  Faith,  and  Charity,  and  Hope, 

Justice  and  Trutii  the  champions  of  their  cause, 

Firmly  but  peaceably  they  seek  to  cope 

"With  selfish  interests  and  mistaken  laws. 

Yc  who  love  man's  advancement — peace — free  trade, 
Ye  who  would  blessings  win  from  every  land. 

Oh !  give  the  liberating  League  your  aid, 

And  speed  its  course  with  zealous  heart  and  hand  ! 


A  HINT  TO  THE  FARMERS. 

Farmers,  whose  income,  day  by  day, 
Slides  on  the  Sliding  Scale  away, 

"Whatever  its  direction  ; 
When  favoured  most  still  most  forlorn, 
Starved  by  monopoly  of  Corn, 

And  ruined  by  protection ; — 

Farmers  !  who  dying,  seldom  see 
One  penny  left  for  Charon's  fee. 

When  o'er  the  Styx  ye're  ferried, 
But  in  your  landlord's  pocket  trace 
(Like  Mecca  to  the  Turks)  the  place 

Wherein  your  profit 's  buried — 

Farmers  !  who  find  in  Cobden's  breath, 
And  Bright's  harangues,  a  menaced  death 

For  all  of  yeoman  station, 
And  most  appropriately  brand 
The  Corn-law  Leaguers  as  a  band 

Prone  to  ass — ass — i nation : — 


120  A   HINT   TO    THE    FARMERS. 

When  landlords  crj,  "  We  must  be  fed, 
Go — grind  your  bones  to  make  our  bread, 

From  Earth  more  harvests  ravish ; 
Study  Liebig,  ye  clodpole  elves  ! 
Buy  Guano — Soda — stint  yourselves, 

That  we  may  still  be  lavish :" — 

Farmers  !  ye  ought  to  patronise 
Whate'er  improvements  may  arise 

To  lessen  your  expenses, 
So  hear  my  tale — there's  little  in 't, 
'Tis  merely  meant  to  give  a  hint 

For  making  cheap  field  fences. 

Queen  Bess — I  mean  Elizabeth, 
Favoured,  as  the  historian  saith. 

The  handsome  Earl  of  Leicester, 
To  whom  she  made  large  grants  of  land. 
For  which  he  doubtless  kissed  her  hand, 

And  duly  thanked  and  blessed  her. 

These  lands  were  commons,  on  whose  turf, 
Many  a  cottager  and  serf 

Had  fed  his  goose  or  donkey ; 
And  being  dispossessed,  the  crowd 
Began  to  murmur  in  a  loud, 

I  need  n't  add  a  wrong  key. 

"What  cared  his  lordship  !  down  he  came, 
With  carpenters  to  fence  the  same. 

And  shut  out  clowns  and  cattle ; 
Riding  each  morn  the  men  to  watch, 
So  that  no  moment  they  might  snatch 

For  drink  or  tittle-tattle. 


DISAPPOINTMENT.  121 

One  day,  a  peasant  by  bis  side 

Bowed  bis  gray  bead  and  bumbly  cried, 

"  I  ax  your  lorsbip's  pardon. 
I've  got  a  notion  in  my  nob, 
Wbereby  tbis  bcre  expensive  job 

Need  bardly  cost  a  farden." 
"  Not  cost  a  fiirtbing,  doting  clown !" 
Exclaimed  bis  lordsbip  witb  a  frown. 

Half  angry  and  balf  comic ; — 
"  Braggart  most  vain  and  over  free, 
Tbink'st  tbou  tbat  I  can  learn  from  tbee 

A  plan  more  economic  ?' ' 
"Yes,"  quotb  tbe  rustic — "yes,  my  lord, 
You  need  n't  buy  anotber  board, 

Or  oaken  plank  or  paling. 
Think  not  my  words  are  brags  and  boasts, 
For  if  your  lordsbip  finds  tbe  posts, 

Tbe  public  will  find  railing  P'' 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 
Jot  !  joy  !  my  lover's  bark  returns, 

I  know  ber  by  ber  bearing  brave : 
How  gallantly  tbe  foam  sbe  spurns, 

And  bounds  in  triunipb  o'er  tbe  wave ! 
Wby  dost  tbou  veil  tbe  glorious  sigbt, 

In  lurid  rain,  tbou  summer  cloud  ? 
See  !  see !  tbe  ligbtning  flasbes  brigbt ! 

Hark !  to  the  thunder  long  and  loud !         * 
The  storm  is  past — the  skies  arc  fair, 

But  where's  the  bark? — there  Avas  but  one  : — 
Ha !  she  is  yonder,  shattered — bare — 

She  reels — she — sinks — 0  Heaven  !  she's  gone 
6 


122  THE   DYIXG    poet's   FAREWELL. 


THE  DYING  POET'S  FAREWELL. 

Animiila  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis 
Qu8e  nunc  abibis  in  loca  ? 

AUKIAS^. 

0  THOU  woiiclrotis  arch  of  azure, 
Sun,  and  starry  plains  immense! 

Glories  that  astound  the  gazer, 
By  their  dread  magnificence  ! 

0  thou  ocean,  whose  commotion 

Awes  the  proudest  to  devotion  ! 

Must  I — must  I  from  ye  fly, 

Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ? 

0  ye  keen  and  gusty  mountains, 
On  whose  top  I  braved  the  sky ! 

0  ye  music-poui-ing  fountains. 
On  whose  marge  I  loved  to  lie  ! 

0  ye  posies — lilies,  roses, 

All  the  charms  that  earth  discloses  I 

Must  I— must  I  from  ye  fly. 

Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ? 

0  ye  birds  whose  matin  chorus 
Taught  me  to  rejoice  and  bless  ! 

And  ye  herds,  whose  voice  sonorous 
Swelled  the  hymn  of  thankfulness ! 

Learned  leisure,  and  the  pleasure 

Of  the  ]\Iuse,  my  dearest  treasure ; 

Must  I — must  I  from  ye  fly, 

Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ? 

0  domestic  ties  endearing, 

Which  still  chain  my  soul  to  earth  ! 


THE    DYING    POET'S   FAREWELL.  123 

0  ye  friends  ^Yhosc  converse  cheering, 
Winged  the  hours  with  social  mirth ! 
Songs  of  gladness,  chasing  sadness, 
AVine's  delight,  Avithout  its  madness  j 
[Must  I,  must  I  from  ye  fly, 
Bid  ye  all  adieu — and  die  ? 

Yes — I  now  fulfil  the  fiction 

Of  the  swan  that  sings  in  death ; — 

Earth,  receive  my  benediction. 
Air,  inhale  my  parting  breath ; 

Hills  and  valleys,  forest  alleys. 

Prompters  of  my  muse's  sallies, 

Fields  of  green  and  skies  of  blue, 

Take,   0  !   take  my  last  adieu. 

Yet  perhaps  when  all  is  ended. 

And  the  grave  dissolves  my  frame. 

The  elements  from  which  'twas  blended 
May  their  several  parts  reclaim  ; 

"Waters  flowing,  breezes  blowing, 

Earth,  and  all  upon  it  growing. 

Still  may  have  my  altered  essence, 

Ever  floating  in  their  presence ; 

While  my  disembodied  spirit 

May  to  fields  Elysian  soar. 
And  some  lowest  scat  inherit 

Near  the  mighty  bards  of  yore ; 
Never,  never  to  dissever. 
But  to  dwell  in  bliss  for  ever. 
Tuning  an  enthusiast  lyre 
To  that  high  and  laurelled  quire. 


SONNETS, 


Eternal  and  Omnipotent  Unseen ! 

Who  badest  the  world,  with  all  its  lives  complete, 

Start  from  the  void  and  thrill  beneath  tlij  feet, 
Thee  I  adore  with  reverence  serene ; 

Here,  in  the  fields,  thine  own  cathedral  meet. 
Built  hj  thyself,  star-roofed,  and  hung  with  green, 

Wherein  all  breathing  things  in  concord  sweet, 

Organed  by  winds,  perpetual  hymns  repeat : 
Here  hast  thou  spread  that  book  to  every  eye, 

Whose  tongue  and  truth  all,  all  may  read  and  prove, 
On  whose  three  blessed  leaves — Earth,  Ocean,  Sky, 

Thine  own  right  hand  hath  stamped  might,  justice, 
love; 
Grand  Trinity,  which  binds  in  due  degree, 
God,  man,  and  brute,  in  social  unity. 


MORXING. 

Beautiful  Earth !  0  how  can  I  refrain 

From  falling  down  to  worship  thee  ?     Behold, 
Over  the  misty  mountains  springs  amain 

The  glorious  Sun ;  his  flaming  locks  unfold 
Their  gorgeous  clusters,  pouring  o'er  the  plain 

Torrents  of  light.     Hark  !     Chanticleer  has  tolled 
His  matin  bell,  and  the  lark's  choral  train 

Warble  on  hio-h  hosannas  uncontrolled. 


SONNETS.  125 

All  nature  worships  thco,  thou  now-born  tlaj ! 
Blade,  llowor,  and  leaf,  their  tlewy  oifcrings  pay 

Upon  the  shrine  of  incense-breathing  earth  ; 
]>inLs,  flocks,  and  insects,  chaunt  their  morning  lay; 

Let  me,  too,  join  in  the  thanksgiving  mirth. 
And  praise,  through  thee,  the  God  that  gave  thee  birth. 


TO  THE  SETTING  SUN. 

Thou  central  Eye  of  God,  whose  lidless  ball 

Is  vision  all  around,  dispensing  heat. 
And  light  and  life,  and  regulating  all 

With  its  pervading  glance — how  calm  and  SAveet 

Is  thine  unclouded  setting !     Thou  dost  greet. 
With  parting  smiles,  the  earth  ;  night's  shadows  fall, 

But  long  where  thou  hast  sunk  shall  splendours  meet, 
And,  hngering  there,  thy  glories  past  recall. 
Oh !  may  my  heart,  like  thee,  unspotted,  clear, 
Be  as  a  sun  to  all  within  its  sphere ; 

And  when  beneath  the  earth  I  seek  my  doom, 
May  I  with  smiling  calmness  disappear, 

And  friendship's  twihght,  hovering  o'er  my  tomb, 

Still  bid  my  memory  survive  and  bloom. 


OX  THE  STATUE  OF  A  PIPING  FAUN. 

Hark  !  hearest  thou  not  the  pipe  of  Faunus,  sweeping, 
In  dulcet  glee,  through  Thessaly's  domain  ? 

Dost  thou  not  see  embowered  wood-nymphs  peeping 
To  watch  the  graces  that  around  him  reign ; 


126  SONNETS. 

While  distant  vintagers,  and  peasants  reaping, 

Stand  in  mute  transport,  listening  to  the  strain ; 
And  Pan  himself,  beneath  a  pine-tree  sleeping. 

Looks  round,  and  smiles,  and  drops  to  sleep  again? 
0  happy  Greece !  while  thy  blest  sons  were  rovers 
Through  all  the  loveliness  this  earth  discovers. 

They  in  their  minds  a  brighter  region  founded, 
Haunted  by  gods  and  sylvans,  nymphs  and  lovers, 

Where   forms   of    grace   through   sunny    landscapes 
bounded, 

By  music  and  enchantment  all  surrounded. 


OX  A  STUPENDOUS  LEG  OF  GRANITE, 

DISCOVEEED   STANDING  BY  ITSELF  IN   THE  DEBEET8   OP  EGYTT,   WITH  THE 
INSCEIPTION   INBEETED  liELOW. 

In  Egypt's  sandy  silence,  all  alone, 

Stands  a  gigantic  Leg,  which  far  off  throws 
The  only  shadow  that  the  Desert  knows. 

"  I  am  great  Ozymandias,"  saith  the  stone, 
"  The  King  of  kings  ;  this  mighty  city  shows 

The  wonders  of  my  hand."     The  city  "s  gone ! 
Naught  but  the  leg  remaining  to  disclose 

The  site  of  that  forgotten  Babylon. 

We  wonder,  and  some  hunter  may  express 

Wonder  like  ours,  when  through  the  wilderness 
Where  London  stood^  holding  the  wolf  in  chase, 

He  meets  some  fragment  huge,  and  stops  to  guess 
What  wonderful,  but  unrecorded,  race 
Once  dwelt  in  that  annihilated  place. 


SONNETS.  127 


ON  A  GREEN-HOUSE. 


IlErxE,  from  earth's  dreclal  heights  and  dingles  lowly, 

Tlic  representatives  of  Nature  meet ; 
Not  like  a  Congress,  or  Alliance  Holj 

Of  Kings,  to  rivet  chains,  but  with  their  sweet 

Blossomj  mouths  to  preach  the  love  complete, 
That  with  pearled  misletoe,  and  beaded  holly, 

Clothed  them  in  green  unchangeable,  to  greet 
Winter  Avith  smiles,  and  banish  melancholy. 
I  envy  not  the  Emathian  madman's  fame. 
Who  won  the  world,  and  built  immortal  shame 

On  tears  and  blood ;  but  if  some  flower,  new  found, 
In  its  embalming  cup  might  shroud  my  name, 

IMine  wer.*  a  tomb  more  Avorthily  renowned 

Than  Cheops'  pile,  or  Artemisia's  mound. 


WEITTEN  IN  THE  PORCH  OF  BINSTEAD  CHURCH, 
ISLE  OF  WIGHT. 

Farewell,  sweet  Binstead  !  take  a  fond  farewell 

From  one  unused  to  sight  of  woods  and  seas, 
Amid  the  strife  of  cities  doomed  to  dwell, 

Yet  roused  to  ecstacy  by  scenes  like  these, 
Who  could  for  ever  sit  beneath  thy  trees, 

Inhaling  fragrance  from  the  flowery  dell ; 
Or  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  breeze, 

Gaze  Avith  delight  on  Ocean's  awful  swell. 
Again  farewell  !  nor  deem  that  I  profme 
Thy  sacred  porch  ;  for  while  the  Sabbath  strain 

May  fail  to  turn  the  sinner  from  his  ways, 
These  are  impressions  none  can  feel  in  vain — 

These  are  the  wonders  that  perforce  must  raiso 

The  soul  to  God,  in  reverential  praise. 


128  SONNETS. 


THE  AVORLD. 

On,  Avhat  a  palace  rare  liast  thou  created, 
Almighty  Architect,  for  man's  delight ! 

With  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  illuminated ; 

Whose  azure  dome  with  pictured  clouds  is  bright, 
Each  painted  by  thy  hand — a  glorious  sight ! 

Whose  halls  are  countless  landscapes,  variegated, 
All  carpeted  with  flowers ;  while  all  invite 

Each  sense  of  man  to  be  with  pleasure  sated. 

Fruits  hang  around  us ;  music  fills  each  beak ; 

The  fields  are  perfumed ;  and  to  eyes  that  seek 

For  Nature's  charms,  what  tears  of  joy  will  start. 

So  let  me  thank  thee,  God,  not  Avith  the  reek 
Of  sacrifice,  but  breathings  poured  apart. 
And  the  blood-offering  of  a  grateful  heart. 


TO  A  ROSE. 


Thou  new-born  Rose,  emerging  from  the  dew. 

Like  Aphrodite,  Avhen  the  lovely  bather 
Blushed  from  the  sea,  how  fair  thou  art  to  view. 

And  fragrant  to  the  smell !     The  Almighty  Father 
Implanted  thee,  that  men  of  every  hue, 

Even  a  momentary  joy  might  gather ; 
And  shall  he  save  one  people,  and  pursue 

Others  to  endless  agony  ?  0  rather 
Let  me  believe  in  thee  thou  holy  Rose, 
Who  dost  alike  thy  lips  of  love  unclose. 

Be  thy  abode  by  saint  or  savage  trod. 
Thou  art  the  priest  whose  sermons  soothe  our  woes, 

Preaching,  with  nature's  tongue  from  every  sod, 

Love  to  mankind,  and  confidence  in  God. 


SONNETS. 


120 


ON  AN  ANCIENT  LANCE,  HANGING  IN  AN  ARMOTJRY. 

OxcE  in  the  l)rcczj  coppice  didst  thou  dance, 

And  nightingales  amid  thy  foliage  sang  ; 
Formed  by  man's  cruel  art  into  a  lance, 

Oft  hast  thou  pierced,  (the  while  the  welkin  rang 

With  trump  and  drum,  shoutings  and  battle  clang,) 
Some  foeman's  heart.     Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance. 

Have  left  thee,  now,  and  tliou  dost  silent  hang, 
From  age  to  age,  in  deep  and  dusty  trance. 

What  is  thy  change  to  ours  ?     These  gazing  eyes, 
To  earth  reverting,  may  again  arise 

In  dust  to  settle  on  the  self-same  space ; 
Dust,  which  some  offspring,  yet  unborn,  who  tries 
To  poise  thy  weight,  may  Avith  his  hand  efface, 

And  with  his  mouldered  eyes  again  replace. 


THE   NTCaiTIXGALE. 

Lone  warbler  !  thy  love-melting  heart  supplies 

The  liquid  music-fall,  that  from  thy  bill 
Gushes  in  such  ecstatic  rhapsodies. 

Drowning  night's  ear.     Yet  thine  is  but  the  skill 
Of  loftier  love,  that  hung  up  in  the  skies 

Those  everlasting  lamps,  man's  guide,  until 
Morning  return,  and  bade  fresh  flowers  arise, 

Blooming  by  night,  new  fragrance  to  distil.    . 
Why  are  these  blessings  lavished  from  above 

On  man,  when  his  unconscious  sense  and  sight 
Are  closed  in  sleep ;  but  that  the  few  who  rove, 

From  want  or  woe,  or  travels  urge  by  night. 

May  still  have  perfumes,  music,  flowers,  and  light ; 
So  kind  and  watchful  is  celestial  love  ! 


130  SONNET. CHARADE. 

SUNSET. 

'Tis  sweet  to  sit  beneath  these  ■vyahiut-trees. 
And  pore  upon  the  sun  in  splendour  sinking, 

And  think  upon  the  wond'rous  mysteries 

Of  this  so  lovely  world,  until,  with  thinking, 
Thought  is  bewildered,  and  the  spirit,  shrinkmg 

Into  itself  no  outward  object  sees, 

Still,  from  its  inward  fount,  new  visions  drinking, 

Till  the  sense  swims  in  dreamy  reveries. 

Awaking  from  this  trance,  with  gentle  start, 

'Tis  sweeter  still  to  feel  the  o'erflowing  heart 
Shoot  its  glad  gushes  to  the  thrilling  cheek ; 

To  feel  as  if  the  yearning  soul  would  dart 

Upwards  to  God,  and  by  its  flutters  speak 
Homao-e  for  Avhicli  all  lang;uao;e  is  too  weak. 


CHARADE. 

Sordid  and  narrow  and  mean  is  my  First, 

Where  in  tenements  rank  with  tobacco  and  gm. 
Dwells  the  toiling  mechanic  with  poverty  cursed, 

'INIid  the  breakers  of  law  and  the  victims  of  sin. 
'Tis  gone! — a  hall  uprises — view 
Yon  clamorous  prize-fighting  crew, 
Wrano-linni;,  iandino;,  sense  entang-ling, 
Law  new-fangling,  justice  mangling — 
'Tis  not  Bedlam,  but  as  bad, 
For  money-mania  makes  them  mad. 
Hey  presto  pass !  a  graced  saloon  behold 

Where  to  a  brighter  star  bright  stars  repair, 
And  beauty  decked  in  jewelry  and  gold, 

(liirtsey  to  grace  and  beauty  still  more  rare. 


CHARADE.  131 

From  each  and  all  of  these,  at  times, 

Prisoned  within  my  second's  bound, 
The  sick— the  sad — the  doomed  for  crimes, 

Tlje  idle  and  the  gay  are  found, 
Swiftly  their  wingless  flight  is  flown, 

Their  guide  a  lady"s  plaything,  beckoned 
By  hand  unseen  from  spot  unknown : — 

What  urges  thee  so  fast  my  second  ? 
What  hurts  the  eye,  yet  mocks  the  sight, 

Feels  not,  yet  sighs  and  makes  lament ; — 
As  any  floating  feather  light, 

And  yet  at  times  omnipotent. 
Guarded,  my  Second,  thus,  thy  might 

Would  seem  to  challenge  fate  and  death. 
Yet  doom  and  danger  track  thy  flight. 

Threatening  around — above — beneath. 
See,  see.  the  lightning's  angry  flash  ; 

Hark  !  what  an  elemental  roar  ? 
A  shuddering  cry— a  thunder  crash — 

My  Second 's  gone — 'tis  seen  no  more ! 
Let  none  but  pleasant  sights  appear, 

Naught  but  the  turtle-dove  be  heard, 
Where  Passion-flowers,  to  lovers  dear, 

Enwreathe  an  arbour  for  my  Third. — 
There  the  heart  vents  in  tender  sighs 

The  feeling  that  no  words  can  reach, 
Or  makes  the  love-revealing  eyes 

:More  fond  and  eloquent  than  speech. 
Fulfilled  be  all  the  hopes  ye  raise. 

Enamoured  inmates  of  the  bower. 
And  oh  !  may  all  your  future  days 
Be  blissful  as  the  present  hour  ! 

[Courtship.] 


132  CHARADE. 


CHARADE. 


Gin-palace  Circe !  quit  the  niche 

Or  den  that  constitutes  my  First, 
Nor  from  below,  thou  fair  foul  witch ! 

Call  spirits  baleful  and  accursed. 
She 's  gone  ! — Beware  !  your  pouch  to  pick, 

Yon  crew  throws  dust  into  your  eyes  : 
Distrust  their  flowers  of  rhetoric, 

They  garland  whom  they  victimize. 
Now  to  our  dearest  hopes  opposed, 

My  changeful  First !  thou  'rt  all  we  dread ; 
And  now,  in  solid  gold  disclosed, 

How  eagerly  thou  'rt  coveted  ! 
But  ah  !  most  fatal  art  thou  when 

Thou  'rt  formed  beneath  the  'whelming  wave, 
Of  women  fair  and  gallant  men. 

The  Sacrificcr  and  the  grave ! 

The  friend,  the  lover,  are  on  thee, 

My  Second  !  source  of  many  a  tear, 
When  their  vexed  souls  they  cannot  free 

From  dark  suspense,  and  jealous  fear. 
On  thee,  within  this  prison  lone. 

The  doomed  assassin  or  the  thief. 
Vents,  in  his  agony,  the  groan, 

Or  prays  for  death  as  a  relief. 
I  see  thee  speeding  overhead. 

As  if  thou  hadst  h,n  eagle's  wing, 
I  see  thee  in  the  cattle  shed, 

A  lifeless  and  unmoving  thing. 


CHARADE.  133 

My  Third  is  flishioncd  to  enfold 
Strange  implements  of  war. — Behold 

Those  frames  Avith  human  features. 
By  time  and  artificial  means 
They  're  manufactured  to  machines 

For  killing  human  creatures. 
Obedient  moves — east,  west,  north,  south, 
Up  to  the  breach,  or  cannon's  mouth  : 

Each  automatic  figure — 
'Gamst  friend  or  foe,  whate'er  the  cause, 
With  equal  nonchalance  he  draws 

His  death-dispensing  trigger. 
Enslaved  alike  in  frame  and  mind, 
Life's  object  for  its  means  resigned. 

What  gains  the  unlucky  varlet  ? 
Dying,  he  sleeps  on  honour's  couch. 
And  living,  flaunts  with  empty  pouch, 

In  outward  gold  and  scarlet. 
Never  were  muscles,  bones,  and  will, 
By  such  self-sacrificing  skill. 

Made  neuter,  passive,  active. 
Machine!  thou'rt  mechanism's  pride, 
But  never  was  its  art  applied 

To  purpose  less  attractive  ! 

[Barrack.] 


CILVRADE. 


On  !  what  a  glorious  city ! — behold 

Its  obelisks,  pyramids,  sphinx-guarded  fanes. 

You  gaze  on  Bubastis  in  Egypt  of  old, 

And  hark  !  to  those  sacred  melodious  strains ! 


134  CHARADE. 

The  dulcimer,  harp,  sha\ym,  and  tabret  combine 

With  the  choral  rejoicings  and  anthems  that  burst 
From  yon  temple's  august  and  magnificent  shrine, 

Where  prostrated  crowds  are  adoring  my  First. 
How  strange  the  conflicting  caprices  and  Avhims 

Of  blind  superstition  !  some  ages  are  fled, 
And  the  object  which  living  was  worshipped  with  hymns, 

And  graced  with  an  apotheosis  when  dead, 
In  Europe  is  marked  for  proscription  and  ban, 

As  leagued  with  the  foul  and  unsanctified  crew 
Who  ply  the  black  art  that 's  forbidden  to  man. 

And  with  spirits  of  darkness  dark  courses  pursue. 

And  where  is  my  changeable  Second  displayed  ? 

In  the  belle  and  the  bird,  in  the  damsel  and  crone, 
In  the  foul  and  the  fair,  in  the  matron  and  maid, 

In  the  dabbler  in  mud,  in  the  queen  on  her  throne. 
Who  can  reckon  its  changes  of  form  and  abode  ? 

Arched  and  square,  low  and  dirty,  distorted  and  strait, 
It  is  seen  in  the  ditch,  on  the  dunghill,  the  road. 

In  the  huts  of  the  poor,  in  the  halls  of  the  great. 
It  is  pure  flesh  and  blood,  when  from  Nature's  own  hand: 

INIade  by  man,  its  diversified  substance  is  found 
In  the  fish  of  the  deep,  in  the  beasts  of  the  land. 

In  the  trees  of  the  field,  in  the  ore  under  ground. 
If  sometimes  'tis  worn  unembellished  and  plain. 

By  the  wives  or  the  daughters  of  niggardly  churls, 
At  others  'tis  decked  with  a  glittering  train 

Of  diamonds  and  amethysts,  rubies  and  pearls. 

In  my  populous  Third  what  a  withering  change 
From  the  bushy  Bubastis  my  first  gave  to  sight : 

No  sunbeam,  no  moon  gilds  its  desolate  range  ; 
All  is  silence  profound  and  perpetual  night. 


THE    ALABASTER    vSARCOPIIAGUS.  135 

It  has  numberless  houses  and  each  one  contains 

A  single  inhabitant  ever  asleep, 
No  footfall  is  heard  in  its  streets  and  its  lanes, 

In  the  midst  of  a  crowd  there  is  solitude  deep. 
Here  lovers  whose  union  has  long  been  denied, 

Often  meet,  but  no  love-breathing  whisper  is  heard ; 
Here  bitterest  foemen  are  placed  side  by  side, 

But  the  warfare  is  over  :  there's  peace  in  my  Third  ! 

[Catacomb.] 


ADDRESS    TO  THE    ALABASTER    SARCOPHAGUS, 

LATELY   DEPOSITED   IN   THE   EEITISH   MUSEUM. 

Tiiou  alabaster  relic !  while  I  hold 

My  hand  upon  thy  sculptured  margin  thrown. 

Let  me  recall  the  scenes  thou  couldst  unfold, 

Mightst  thou  relate  the  changes  thou  hast  known, 

For  thou  wert  primitive  in  thy  formation. 

Launched  from  th'  Almighty's  hand  at  the  Creation. 

Yes — Thou  wert  present  when  the  stars  and  skies 
And  worlds  unnumbered  rolled  into  their  places; 

^Yhen  God  from  Chaos  bade  the  spheres  arise. 
And  fixed  the  blazing  sun  upon  its  basis. 

And  with  his  finger  on  the  bounds  of  space 

INIarked  out  each  planet's  everlasting  race. 

How  many  thousand  ages  from  thy  birth 

Thou  sleptst  in  darkness,  it  were  vain  to  ask, 

Till  Egypt's  sons  upheaved  thee  from  the  earth, 
And  year  by  year  pursued  their  patient  task ; 

Till  thou  wert  carved  and  decorated  thus, 

Worthy  to  be  a  King's  Sarcophagus. 


136  ADDRESS   TO 

What  time  Elijah  to  the  skies  ascended, 

Or  David  reigned  in  holy  Palestine, 
Some  ancient  Theban  monarch  was  extended 

Beneath  the  lid  of  this  emblazoned  shrine, 
And  to  that  subterranean  palace  borne 
Which  toiling  ages  in  the  rock  had  -svorn. 

Thebes  from  her  hundred  portals  filled  the  plain 
To  see  the  car  on  which  thou  wert  upheld : — 

What  funeral  pomps  extended  in  thy  train. 

What  banners  waved,  what  mighty  music  swelled. 

As  armies,  priests,  and  crowds,  bewailed  in  chorus 

Their  King — their  God— their  Serapis — their  Grus  ! 

Thus  to  thy  second  quarry  did  they  trust 
Thee  and  the  Lorcl  of  all  the  nations  round. 

Grim  King  of  Silence  !  Monarch  of  the  dust ! 

Embalmed — anointed— jeweled— sceptered  —  crowned, 

Here  did  he  lie  in  state,  cold,  stiff,  and  stark, 

A  leathern  Pharaoh  grinning  in  the  dark. 

Thus  ages  rolled — but  their  dissolving  breath 
Could  only  blacken  that  imprisoned  thing 

Which  wore  a  ghastly  royalty  in  death. 
As  if  it  struggled  still  to  be  a  King ; 

And  each  revolving  century,  like  the  last. 

Just  dropped  its  dust  upon  thy  lid — and  passed. 

The  Persian  conqueror  o'er  Egypt  poured 

His  devastating  host — a  motley  crew  ; 
The  steel-clad  horsemen — the  barbarian  horde — 

Music  and  men  of  every  sound  and  hue — 
Priests,  archers,  eunuchs,  concubines  and  brutes — 
Gongs,  trumpets,  cymbals,  dulcimers,  and  lutes. 


THE    ALAB.ASTER    SARCOPUAGUS.  137 

Then  did  the  fierce  Cambyses  tear  away 

The  ponderous  rock  that  sealed  the  sacred  tomb ; 

Then  did  the  slowly  penetrating  ray 

Redeem  thee  fVoui  long  centuries  of  gloom, 

And  lowered  torches  Haslied  against  thy  side 

As  Asia's  king  thy  blazoned  trophies  eyed. 

Plucked  from  his  grave,  with  sacrilegious  taunt. 
The  features  of  the  royal  corpse  they  scanned : — 

Dashing  the  diadem  from  his  temple  gaunt, 
They  tore  the  sceptre  from  his  graspless  hand, 

And  on  those  fields,  where  once  his  will  Avas  law, 

Left  him  for  winds  to  waste  and  beasts  to  gnaw. 

Some  pious  Thebans,  when  the  storm  was  past. 
Unclosed  the  sepulchre  w^ith  cunning  skill. 

And  nature,  aiding  their  devotion,  cast 
Over  its  entrance  a  concealing  rill. 

Then  thy  third  darkness  came,  and  thou  didst  sleep 

Twenty-three  centuries  in  silence  deep. 

But  he  from  whom  nor  pyramid  nor  sphinx 

Can  hide  its  secrecies,  Belzoni,  came ; 
From  the  tomb's  mouth  unloosed  the  granite  links, 

Gave  thee  again  to  light,  and  life,  and  fame. 
And  brought  thee  from  the  sands  and  desert  forth 
To  charm  the  pallid  children  of  the  North. 

Thou  art  in  London,  which,  when  thou  wert  new, 
Was,  what  Thebes  is,  a  wilderness  and  waste, 

Where  savage  beasts  more  savage  men  pursue — 
A  scene  by  nature  cursed — ^by  man  disgraced. 

Now — 'tis  the  world's  metropohs— the  high 

Queen  of  arms,  learning,  arts,  and  luxury. 


138  THE   ALABASTER   SAECOPHAGUS. 

Here,  where  I  hold  my  hand,  "tis  strange  to  think 
What  other  hands  perchance  preceded  mine  ; 

Others  have  also  stood  beside  thy  brink, 
And  vainly  conned  the  moralizing  line. 

Kin<Ts,  sao-es,  chiefs,  that  touched  this  stone,  like  me, 

Where  are  ye  now  ? — w^here  all  must  shortly  be  ! 

All  is  mutation ; — he  within  this  stone 

Was  once  the  greatest  monarch  of  the  hour : — 

His  bones  are  dust — his  very  name  unknown. 
Go — learn  from  him  the  vanity  of  power : 

Seek  not  the  frame's  corruption  to  control, 

But  build  a  lasting  mansion  for  thy  soul. 


COMIC  POEMS. 


THE  CULPRIT  AND  THE  JUDGE. 

The  realm  of  France  possessed,  in  days  of  old, 

A  thriving  set  of  literati, 
Or  men  of  letters,  turning  all  to  gold  : — 

The  standard  -works  they  made  less  weighty 
By  new  abridgments — took  abundant 

Pains  their  roughnesses  to  polish, 

And  plied  their  scissors  to  abolish 
The  superficial  and  redundant. 

And  yet,  instead  of  fame  and  praise, 
Hogsheads  of  sack,  and  wreaths  of  bays, 
The  law,  in  those  benighted  ages, 

By  barbarous  edicts  did  enjoin 
That  they  should  cease  their  occupation, 
Terming  these  literary  sages 

Clippers  and  filers  of  the  coin ; 
(Oh !  what  a  monstrous  profanation  !) 
Nay,  what  was  deeper  to  be  dreaded. 
These  worthies  Avere,  when  caught,  beheaded ! 

But  to  the  point.     A  story  should 

Be  like  a  coin — a  head  and  tail. 
In  a  few  words  enveloped.     Good  I 

I  must  not  let  the  likeness  fail. — 


140  SONNET    TO    MY    OAVN    NOSE. 

A  gascon  who  had  long  pursued 

This  trade  of  clipping, 
And  filing  the  similitude 

Of  good  King  Pepin, 
Was  caught  hy  the  police,  who  found  him 

With  file  and  scissors  in  his  hand 

And  ounces  of  Pactolian  sand 
Lying  around  him. 
The  case  admitting  no  denial, 
They  hurried  him  forthwith  to  trial ; 
When  the  judge  made  a  long  oration, 
About  the  crime  of  profanation, 
And  gave  no  respite  for  repentance, 
But  instantly  pronounced  his  sentence, 
"  Decapitation!" 

"As  to  offending  powers  divine," 

The  culprit  cried — "be  nothing  said  : 

Yours  is  a  deeper  guilt  than  mine. 
I  took  a  portion  from  the  head 

Of  the  king's  image ;  you,  oh  fearful  odds ! 

Strike  the  whole  head  at  once  from  God's  !" 


SONNET  TO  MY  OWN  NOSE. 

0  NOSE  !  thou  rudder  in  my  face's  centre, 
Since  I  must  follow  thee  until  I  die — 

Since  we  are  bound  together  by  indenture, 
The  master  thou,  and  the  apprentice  I, 

0  be  to  your  Telemachus  a  Mentor, 
Though  oft  invisible,  for  ever  nigh  ; 

Guard  him  from  all  disgrace  and  misadventure. 


THE    MILKMAID    AND    THE    BANKER.  141 

From  hostile  tweak,  or  love's  blind  mastery. 
So  shalt  thou  quit  the  city's  stench  and  smoke, 
For  hawthorn  lanes  and  copses  of  young  oak, 

Scenting  the  gales  of  heaven  that  have  not  yet 
Lost  their  fresh  fragrance,  since  the  morning  broke. 

And  breath  of  flowers  "  with  rosy  May-dews  wet," 

The  primrose,  cowslip,  blue-bell,  violet. 


THE  MILKM.ilD  AND  THE  BANKER. 

A  Milkmaid,  with  a  very  pretty  face. 

Who  lived  at  Acton, 
Had  a  black  Coay  the  ugliest  in  the  place, 

A  crooked-backed  one, 
A  beast  as  dangerous,  too,  as  she  was  frightful. 

Vicious,  and  spiteful ; 
And  so  confirmed  a  truant,  that  she  bounded 
Over  the  hedges  daily,  and  got  pounded : 
'Twas  all  in  vain  to  tie  her  with  a  tether, 
For  then  both  Cow  and  cord  eloped  together. 
Armed  with  an  oaken  bough — (what  folly  ! 
It  should  have  been  of  thorn,  or  prickly  holly,) 
Patty  one  day  was  driving  home  the  beast, 
"Which  had,  as  usual,  slipped  its  anchor, 
"When  on  the  road  she  met  a  certain  Banker, 
"Who  stopped  to  give  his  eyes  a  feast, 
By  gazing  on  her  features  crimsoned  high 
By  a  long  Cow-chase  in  July. 

"  Are  you  from  Acton,  pretty  lass?"  he  cried; 
"Yes" — w4th  a  curtesy  she  replied. 


142  THE    farmer's   wife    and    the    GASCON. 

"Why,  then  you  know  the  laundress,  Sally  Wrench?" 
"Yes,  she's  my  cousin,  sh-,  and  next-door  neighbour." 
"That's  lucky — I've  a  message  for  the  wench, 

Which  needs  dispatch,  and  you  may  save  my  labour. 
Give  her  this  kiss,  my  dear,  and  say  I  sent  it : 
But  mind,  you  owe  me  one — I  've  only  lent  it." 
"  She  shall  know,"  cried  the  girl,  as  she  brandish' d  her 
bough, 

"  Of  the  loving  intentions  you  bore  me ; 
But  since  you're  in  haste  for  the  kiss,  you  '11  allow, 
That  you  'd  better  run  forward  and  give  it  my  Cow, 
For  she,  at  the  rate  she  is  scampering  now. 

Will  reach  Acton  some  minutes  before  me." 


THE  FARMER'S  WIFE  AND  THE  GASCON. 

At  Neufchcltel,  in  France,  where  they  prepare 

Cheeses  that  set  us  longing  to  be  Mites, 
There  dwelt  a  farmer's  wife,  famed  for  her  rare 

Skill  in  these  small  quadrangular  delights. — 
Where  they  were  made,  they  sold  for  the  immense 

Price  of  three  sous  a-piece  ; 
But  as  salt  water  made  their  charms  increase, 

In  England  the  fixed  rate  was  eigh  teen-pence. 

This  damsel  had  to  help  her  in  the  farm. 
To  milk  her  cows,  and  feed  her  hogs, 

A  Gascon  peasant,  with  a  sturdy  arm 
For  digging,  or  for  carrying  logs; 

But  in  his  noddle  weak  as  any  baby. 
In  fact  a  gaby. 


THE    farmer's    wife    AND    THE    GASCON.  14-3 

And  such  a  glutton  when  you  came  to  feed  him, 

That  Wantley's  dragon,  who  "  ate  barns  and  churches, 

As  if  they  were  geese  and  turkeys," 

(Vide  the  BalUid,)  scarcely  could  exceed  him. 

One  morn  she  had  prepared  a  monstrous  bowl 

Of  cream,  like  nectar, 
And  Avould  n't  go  to  Church  (good  careful  soul !) 

Till  she  had  left  it  safe  with  a  protector ; 
So  she  gave  strict  injunctions  to  the  Gascon 

To  Avatch  it  while  his  mistress  was  to  mass  gone. 


Watch  it  he  did — he  never  took  his  eyes  off, 
But  licked  his  upper,  then  his  under  lip, 
And  doubled  up  his  fist  to  drive  the  flies  off, 
Begrudging  them  the  smallest  sip, 
Which  if  they  got. 
Like  my  Lord  Salisbury,  he  heaved  a  sigh, 
And  cried, — "  0  happy,  happy  fly. 
How  I  do  envy  you  your  lot !" 

Each  moment  did  his  appetite  grow  stronger ; 

His  bowels  yearned ; 
At  length  he  could  not  bear  it  any  longer. 

But  on  all  sides  his  looks  he  turned, 
And  finding  that  the  coast  was  clear,  he  quaffed 

The  Avhole  up  at  a  draught. — 
Scudding  from  church,  the  farmers  wife 

Flew  to  the  dairy ; 
But  stood  aghast,  and  could  not,  for  her  life. 

One  sentence  utter, 
Until  she  summoned  breath  enough  to  mutter, 

"Holy  St.  Mary!" 


144  THE    farmer's. WIFE    AND    THE    GASCON. 

And  shortly,  with  a  face  of  scarlet, 
The  vixen  (for  she  was  a  \dxen)  flew 

Upon  the  varlet, 
Asking  the  when,  and  where,  and  how,  and  who 

Had  gulped  her  cream,  nor  left  an  atom  ; 
To  which  he  gave  not  separate  replies, 

But  with  a  look  of  excellent  digestion, 

One  answer  made  to  every  question, 
"The  Flies!" 

"  The  flies,  you  rogue  !  the  flics,  you  guzzling  dog  ! 

Behold  your  whiskers  still  are  covered  thickly ; 
Thief — liar — villain — gormandizer — hog! 

I'll  make  you  tell  another  story  quickly." 
So  out  she  bounced,  and  brought,  with  loud  alarms, 

Two  stout  Gens-darmeSy 
Who  bore  him  to  the  judge — a  little  prig. 

With  angry  bottle  nose 

Like  a  red  cabbage  rose. 
While  lots  of  white  ones  flourished  on  his  wig. — 
Looking  at  once  both  stern  and  wise, 

He  turned  to  the  delinquent, 
And  'gan  to  question  him  and  catechise 

As  to  which  way  the  drink  went : 
Still  the  same  dogged  answers  rise, 
*'  The  flies,  my  Lord — the  flies,  the  flies  !" 

"  Psha  1"  quoth  the  judge,  half  peevish  and  half  pomp- 
ous, 

"Why,  you're  non  compos. 
You  should  have  watched  the  bowl  as  she  desired, 

And  killed  the  flies,  you  stupid  clown." 
"What,  is  it  lawful  then,"  the  dolt  enquired, 

"  To  kill  the  flies  in  this  here  town?" — 


THE    AUCTIONEER   AND    THE    LAWYER.  145 

"  The  man 's  an  ass !  a  pretty  question  this ! 
Lawful,  you  booby?  to  be  sure  it  is, — 
You  *vc  my  authority,  whene'er  you  meet  'em 
To  kill  the  rogues,  and  if  you  like  it,  eat  'em." 

"  Zooks  !"  cried  the  rustic,  "I'm  right  glad  to  hear  it. 

Constable,  catch  that  thief!  may  I  go  hang 
If  yonder  blue- bottle,  (I  know  his  flice,) 

Is  n't  the  very  leader  of  the  gang 
That  stole  the  cream,  let  me  come  near  it !" 

This  said,  he  started  from  his  place. 
And  aiming  one  of  his  sledge-hammer  blows 
At  a  large  fly  upon  the  Judge's  nose, 
The  luckless  blue-bottle  he  smashed. 

And  gratified  a  double  grudge. 
For  the  same  catapult  completely  mashed 

The  bottle-nose  belono;ino;  to  the  Judge ! 


THE  AUCTIONEER  AND  THE  LAWYER. 

A  CITY  Auctioneer,  one  Samuel  Stubbs, 
Did  greater  execution  with  his  hammer, 
Assisted  by  his  puiEng  clamour. 
Than  Gog  and  jNIagog  with  their  clubs, 
Or  that  great  Fee-fa-fum  of  War, 
The  Scandinavian  Thor, 
Did  with  his  mallet,  which  (see  Bryant's 
Mythology,)  felled  stoutest  giants ; — 
For  Samuel  knocked  down  houses,  churches, 
And  woods  of  oak,  and  elms,  and  birches, 
With  greater  case  than  mad  Orlando 
Tore  the  first  tree  he  set  his  hand  to, — 


146  THE    AUCTIONEER   AND    THE    LAWYER. 

He  ought  in  reason  to  have  raised  his  o"WT1 

Lot  bj  knocking  others'  down. 

And  had  he  been  content  with  shaking 

His  hammer  and  his  hand,  and  taking 

Advantage  of  what  brought  him  grist,  he 

Might  have  been  as  rich  as  Christie ; 

But  somehow  when  thj  midnight  bell,  Bow, 

Sounded  along  Cheapside  its  knell, 

Our  spark  was  busj  in  Pall-Mall 
Shaking  his  elbow ; — 
Marking,  with  paw  upon  his  mazzard, 
The  turns  of  hazard  ; 
Or  rattling  in  a  box  the  dice, 

Which  seemed  as  if  a  grudge  they  bore 
To  Stubbs ;  for  often  in  a  trice, 
Down  on  the  nail  he  was  compelled  to  pay 
All  that  his  hammer  brought  him  in  the  day, 

And  sometimes  more. 
Thus  like  a  male  Penelope,  our  wight 
What  he  had  done  by  day  undid  by  night : 
No  wonder,  therefore,  if  like  her 

He  was  beset  by  clamorous  brutes, 
Who  crowded  round  him  to  prefer 

Their  several  suits. 

One  Mr.  Snipps,  the  tailor,  had  the  longest 
Bill  for  many  suits — of  raiment, 

And  naturally  thought  he  had  the  strongest 
Claim  for  payment. 

But  debts  of  honour  must  be  paid, 

Whate'er  becomes  of  debts  of  trade ; 

And  so  our  stylish  auctioneer, 

From  month  to  month  throughout  the  year, 


THE   AUCTIONEER   AND   THE   LAWYER.  147 

Excuses,  falsehoods,  pleas,  alleges; 
Or  flatteries,  compliments,  and  pledges, 
When  in  the  latter  mood  one  day, 
He  squeezed  his  hand,  and  s^wore  to  pay. 

"  But  when  ?"     "  Next  month,  you  may  depend  on 't, 

My  dearest  Snipps,  before  the  end  on't ; 

Your  flice  proclaims,  in  every  feature, 

You  would  n't  harm  a  fellow  creature — 

You're  a  kind  soul,  I  know  you  are,  Snipps." — 

"  Ay,  so  you  said  six  months  ago ; 

But  such  fine  woi-ds,  I'd  have  you  know, 

Butter  no  parsnips." 

This  said,  he  bade  his  lawyer  draw 

A  special  writ, 

Serve  it  on  Stubbs,  and  follow  it 
Up  with  the  utmost  rigour  of  the  law. 

This  lawyer  was  a  friend  of  Stubbs ; 
That  is  to  say 
In  a  civic  way, 
Where  business  interposes  not  its  rubs ; 
For  Avhere  the  main  chance  is  in  question, 

Damon  leaves  Pythias  to  the  stake, 

Pyladcs  and  Orestes  break. 
And  Alexander  cuts  Hephsestion  ; 
But  when  our  man  of  law  must  sue  his  friends, 
Tenfold  politeness  made  amends. 

So  when  he  meets  our  Auctioneer, 

Into  his  outstretched  hand  he  thrust  his 

Writ,  and  said  with  friendly  leer, 

"  My  dear,  dear  Stubbs,  pray  do  me  justice ; 


1««J  THE    GOUTY   MERCHANT. 

In  this  affair  I  hope  you  see 
No  censure  can  attach  to  me — 

Don't  entertain  a  "wrong  impression; 
I'm  doing  now  what  must  be  done 

In  mj  profession." — 

"  And  so  am  I,"  Stubbs  answered  with  a  frown; 
So  crying,  ' '  Going — going  —  going — gone ! ' ' 

He  knocked  him  down. 


THE    GOUTY    MERCHANT   AND    THE    STRANGER. 

In  Broad  Street  Buiklings,  on  a  winter  night, 
Snug  by  his  parlour  fire  a  gouty  wight 
Sat  all  alone,  with  one  hand  rubbing 

His  leg  wrapped  up  in  fleecy  hose. 

While  t'other  held  beneath  his  nose 
The  Public  Ledger,  in  whose  columns,  grubbing, 

He  noted  all  the  sales  of  hops, 

Ships,  shops,  and  slops, 
Gums,  galls,  and  groceries,  ginger,  gin, 
Tar,  tallow,  turmeric,  turpentine,  and  tin ; 

When  lo !  a  decent  personage  in  black 

Entered,  and  most  politely  said — 
''  Your  footman,  sir,  has  gone  his  nightly  track. 

To  the  King's  Head, 
And  left  your  door  ajar,  which  I 
Observed  in  passing  by. 
And  thought  it  neighbourly  to  give  you  notice." 

"  Ten  thousand  thanks  !  how  very  few  get, 

In  time  of  danger. 

Such  kind  attentions  from  a  stranger  ! 


THE   FAT   ACTOR   AND    TUE   RUSTIC.  149 

Assuredly  that  fellow's  throat  is 

Doomed  to  a  final  drop  at  Newgate, 
He  knows  too,  the  unconscionable  elf! 
That  there  "s  no  soul  at  home  except  myself." 

"Indeed!"  replied  the  stranger,  looking  grave; 

"  Then  he  's  a  double  knave. 

He  knows  that  rogues  and  thieves  by  scores 

Nightly  beset  unguarded  doors  ; 

And  see  how  easily  might  one 

Of  these  domestic  foes, 

Even  beneath  your  very  nose, 
Perform  his  knavish  tricks, 
Enter  your  room  as  I  have  done, 
Blow  out  your  candles — thus,  and  thus 
Pocket  your  silver  candlesticks — 

And  walk  oflf  thus  P'' 

So  said,  so  done — he  made  no  more  remark ; 

Nor  waited  for  replies, 

But  marched  off  with  his  prize, 
Leaving  the  gouty  merchant  in  the  dark. 


THE   FAT  ACTOR  AND  THE  RUSTIC. 

Cardinal  "Wolsey  was  a  man 

Of  an  unbounded  stomach,  Shakespeare  says  : 
Meaning,  (in  metaphor,)  for  ever  puffing 
To  swell  beyond  his  size  and  span  ; 

But  had  he  seen  a  player  of  our  days 
Enacting  Falstaff  without  stuffing, 


150  THE   FAT   ACTOR   AND   THE   RUSTIC, 

He  would  have  owned  that  Wolsej's  bulk  ideal 
Equalled  not  that  within  the  bounds 
This  actor's  belt  surrounds, 

Which  is,  moreover,  all  alive  and  real. 

This  player,  when  the  Peace  enabled  shoals 

Of  our  odd  fishes 
To  visit  every  clime  between  the  poles, 
Swam  with  the  stream,  a  histrionic  Kraken  : 

Although  his  wishes 
Must  not  in  this  proceeding  bo  mistaken, 
For  he  went  out  professionally  bent 
To  see  how  money  might  be  made,  not  spent. 

In  this  most  laudable  employ 

He  found  himself  at  Lille  one  afternoon ; 
And  that  he  might  the  breeze  enjoy, 

And  catch  a  peep  at  the  ascending  moon, 
Out  of  the  town  he  took  a  stroll, 
Refreshing  in  the  fields  his  soul 
With  sight  of  streams,  and  trees,  and  snowy  fleeces. 
And  thoughts  of  crowded  houses  and  new  pieces. 

When  we  are  pleasantly  employed,  time  flies ; — 
He  counted  up  his  profits  in  the  skies, 

Until  the  moon  began  to  shine. 
On  which  he  gazed  awhile,  and  then, 

Pulled  out  his  watch,  and  cried — "  Past  nine! 
Why,  zounds,  they  shut  the  gates  at  ten!" 
Backwards  he  turned  his  steps  histanter, 

Stumping  along  with  might  and  main, 

And  though  'tis  plain 
He  could  n't  gallop,  trot,  or  canter, 
(Those  Avho  had  seen  it  Avould  confess  it,)  he 
Marched  well  for  one  of  such  obesity. 


THE   BANK    CLERK.  151 

Eyeing  his  Avatch,  uud  now  his  forehead  mopping, 

He  pulled  and  blew  along  the  road, 

Afraid  of  melting,  more  afraid  of  stopping ; 

When  in  his  path  he  met  a  clown, 

Returning  from  the  town. — 

"Tell  me,"  he  panted  in  a  thawing  state, 

"  Dost  think  I  can  get  in  friend,  at  the  gate?" 

"  Get  in  ?"  replied  the  hesitating  loon. 
Measuring  with  his  eye  our  bulky  wight : 
"  Why  yes,  sir,  I  should  think  you  might — 

A  load  of  hay  got  in  this  afternoon  !" 


THE  BAXK  CLERK  AND  THE  STABLE  KEEPERS : 

Showing  how  Peter  was  undone 
By  taking  care  of  Number  One. — 

Of  Peter  Prim  (so  Johnson  would  have  written,) 
Let  me  indulge  in  the  remembrance ; — Peter ! 

Thy  formal  phiz  has  oft  my  fancy  smitten. 

For  sure  the  Bank  had  never  a  completer 

Quiz  among  its  thousand  clerks. 

Than  he  who  elicits  our  remarks. — 


Prim  was  a  formalist,  a  prig, 

A  solemn  fop,  an  office  Martinet, 

One  of  those  small  precisians  who  look  big 
If  half  an  hour  before  their  time  they  get 

To  an  appointment,  and  abuse  those  elves 

Who  are  not  over-punctual  like  themselves. 


152  THE    BANK    CLERK   AND 

If  you  should  mark  his  powdered  head  betimes. 

And  polished  shoes  in  Lothburj, 
You  knew  the  hour — for  the  three  quarters'  chimes 

Invariably  struck  as  he  went  by  ; 
From  morning  fines  he  always  saved  his  gammon, 
Not  from  his  hate  of  sloth,  but  love  of  Mammon. 


For  Peter  had  a  special  eye 
To  Number  One — his  charity 

At  home  beginning,  ne'er  extends, 
But  where  it  started  had  its  end  too ; 

And  as  to  lending  cash  to  friends, 
Luckily  he  had  none  to  lend  to. 

No  purchases  so  cheap  as  his. 

While  no  one's  bargains  Avent  so  far, 

And  though  in  dress  a  deadly  quiz, 
No  Quaker  more  particular. 

This  live  automaton,  who  seemed 
To  move  by  clockwork,  ever  keen 
To  live  upon  the  saving  plan, 
Had  soon  the  honour  to  be  deemed 
That  selfish,  heartless,  cold  machine, 
Called  in  the  City — a  warm  man. 

A  Bank  Director  once,  who  dwelt  at  Chigwell, 

Prim  to  a  turtle-feast  invited, 
And  as  the  reader  knows  the  prig  well, 

I  need  not  say  he  went,  delighted ; 
For  great  men,  when  they  let  you  slice  their  meat. 
May  give  a  slice  of  loan — a  richer  treat. 


THE   STABLE-KEEPERS.  153 

No  Stage  leaves  Chigwell  after  eight, 

AYliich  was  too  early  to  eome  back, 
So,  after  much  debate, 

Peter  resolved  to  hire  a  hack ; 
The  more  inclined  to  this,  because  he  knew 
In  London  "Wall,  at  Number  Two, 
An  economic  stable-keeper, 
From  whom  he  hoped  to  get  one  cheaper. 

Behold  him  mounted  on  his  jade, 

A  perfect  Johnny  Gilpin  figure  ; 
But  the  good  bargain  he  had  made 

Compensating  for  sneer  and  snigger, 
He  trotted  on — arrived — sat  doAvn, 

Devoured  enough  for  six  or  seven, 
His  horse  remounted,  and  reached  town 

As  he  had  fixed,  exactly  at  eleven. 
But  whether  habit  led  him,  or  the  Fates 

To  give  a  preference  to  Number  One, 

(As  he  had  always  done,) 
Or  that  the  darkness  jumbled  the  two  gate% 
Certain  it  is  he  gave  that  bell  a  drag. 

Instead  of  Number  Two, 
Rode  in — dismounted — left  his  nag. 

And  homeward  hurried  without  more  ado. 

Some  days  elapsed,  and  no  one  came 
To  bring  the  bill,  or  payment  claim  ; 
He  'gan  to  hope  'twas  overlooked. 
Forgotten  quite,  or  never  booked. 
An  error  which  the  honesty  of  Prim 
Would  ne'er  have  rectified,  if  left  to  him. 
After  six  Aveeks,  however,  comes  a  pair 
Of  groom-like  looking  men, 
7* 


154  PIRON,    AND 

Each  with  a  bill,  which  Peter  they  submit  to ; 
One  for  the  six  weeks'  hire  of  a  bay  mare, 
And  one  for  six  weeks'  keep  of  ditto : 
Together — twenty-two  pounds  ten  ! 

The  tale  got  wind.     What !  Peter  make  a  blunder  ? 

Tl^ere  was  no  end  of  joke,  and  quiz,  and  wonder, 

"Which,  with  the  loss  of  cash,  so  mortified 
Prim,  that  he  suffered  an  attack 
Of  bile,  and  bargained  with  a  quack, 

Who  daily  swore  to  cure  him — till  he  died  ; 
When,  as  no  will  was  found, 

His  scraped,  and  saved,  and  hoarded  store, 
Went  to  a  man  to  whom,  some  months  "beforej 
He  had  refused  to  lend  a  pound  ! 


PIRON,  AND  THE  JUDGE  OF  THE  POLICE. 

PiRON,  a  Poet  of  the  Gallic  nation, 

Who  beat  all  waggish  rivals  hollow. 
Was  apt  to  draw  his  inspiration 

Rather  from  Bacchus  than  Apollo. 
His  hostess  was  his  deity, 
His  Hippocrene  was  eau-de-vie  ; 
And  though  'tis  said 

That  poets  live  not  till  they  die, 
When  living  he  was  often  dead — 
That  is  to  say,  dead  drunk.      "While  I," 
Quoth  Piron,  "  am  by  all  upbraided 

With  drunkenness,  the  vilest,  worst, 
Most  base,  detestable,  degraded, 
Of  sins  that  ever  man  repented. 

None  of  you  blames  this  cursed  thirst 


THE  JUDGE  OF  THE  POLICE.         155 

With  which  I'm  constantlj  tormented. — 
Worse  than  a  choHc  or  a  phthisic, 

Even  now  it  gripes  me  so  severely, 
That  I  must  fly  to  calm  it,  merely 
Swallowing  brandy  as  a  physic." 

To  cure  this  unrelenting  fever 

He  poured  such  doses  through  his  lips,  he 
Was  shortly  what  the  French  call  iv/^e, 

Anglicc — tipsy  ; 
And  while  the  midnight  bell  was  pealing 

Its  solemn  tolling, 
Our  Bacchanal  was  homeward  reeling, 

Tumbling  and  rolling, 
Until  at  last  he  made  a  stop, 

Suflfering  his  noddle,  which  he  could  not  keep 
Upright,  upon  the  ground  to  drop, 

And  in  two  minutes  was  asleep, 
Fast  as  a  top. 

Round  came  the  guard,  and  seeing  him  extended 

Across  the  gutter 

Incompetent  to  move  or  utter. 
They  thought  at  first  his  days  were  ended ; 
But  finding  that  he  was  not  dead. 
Having  lost  nothing  but  his  head. 
They  popped  him  on  a  horse's  back, 

Just  like  a  sack, 
And  shot  him  on  the  guard-house  floor, 
To  let  him  terminate  his  snore. 

Next  morning  when  our  tippling  bard 

Had  got  his  senses, 
They  brought  a  coach  into  the  yard, 

^nd  drove  him  ofi"  to  answer  his  offences, 


156  PIRON    AND    THE    JUDGE. 

Before  the  Judge  of  the  Police, 

AVho  made  a  mighty  fuss  and  clamour ; 
But,  like  some  Justices  of  peace, 

Who  know  as  much  of  law  as  grammar, 

Was  an  egregious  ninny-hammer. 
"Well,  fellow,"  cried  the  magistrate, 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  boozing, 
Then  lying  in  the  street  and  snoozing 
All  night  in  that  indecent  state  ?" 
"  Sir,"  quoth  the  culprit  to  the  man  of  law, 

"  It  was  a  frost  last  night  in  town. 
And  tired  of  tripping,  sliding,  and  slipping, 

Methought  I  might  as  well  lie  down, 
And  wait  until  there  came  a  thaw." 

"Pooh!  nonsense!  psha! 
Imprisonment  must  be  the  lot 
Of  such  a  vagabond  and  sot. 
But,  tell  me,  fellow,  what's  your  name?" 

"  PiRON."— " The  dramatist?"—"  The  same.' 

"Ah,  well,  well,  well,  Monsieur  Piron, 

Pray  take  your  hat  and  quit  the  court. 

For  wags  like  you  must  have  their  sport ; 

But  recollect,  when  you  are  gone. 

You'll  owe  me  one  and  thus  I  shew  it : 

I  have  a  brother  who's  a  poet. 

And  lives  as  you  do,  by  his  wits." 

Quoth  PiRON,  "  that  can  never  pass, 

For  I've  a  brother  who's  an  ass, 
So  we  are  quits." 


THE  FARMER  AND  THE  COUNSELLOR.     157 


THE  FARMER  AND  THE  COUNSELLOR. 

A  COUNSEL  in  the  Common  Picas, 

Who  was  esteemed  a  mighty  wit, 

Upon  the  strength  of  a  chance  hit 
Amid  a  thousand  flippancies, 
And  his  occasional  bad  jokes 

In  bullying,  bantering,  browbeating, 

Ridiculing,  and  maltreating 
Women,  or  other  timid  folks, 

-  In  a  late  cause  resolved  to  hoax 
A  clownish  Yorkshire  farmer — one 

Who,  by  his  uncouth'  look  and  gait, 

Appeared  expressly  meant  by  Fate 
For  being  quizzed  and  played  upon : 
So  having  tipped  the  wink  to  those 

In  the  back  rows. 
Who  kept  their  laughter  bottled  down, 

Until  our  wag  should  draw  the  cork, 
He  smiled  jocosely  on  the  clown, 

And  went  to  work. 

"Well,  Farmer  Numscull,  how  go  calves  at  York?" 

"Why — not,  sir,  as  they  do  wi'  you, 

But  on  four  legs,  instead  of  two." 
"Officer!"  cried  the  legal  elf. 
Piqued  at  the  laugh  against  himself, 

"  Do  pray  keep  silence  down  below  there. 
Now  look  at  me,  clown,  and  attend  ; 
Have  I  not  seen  you  somewhere,  friend?" 

"  Yees — very  like — I  often  go  there." 
"  Our  rustic's  waggish — quite  laconic," 
The  counsel  cried,  with  grin  sardonic ; 


158  THE    COLLEGIAN   AND    THE   PORTER. 

"  I  wish  I'd  known  this  prodigy, 
This  genius  of  the  clods,  when  I 
On  circuit  was  at  York  residing. 
Now,  Farmer,  do  for  once  speak  true — 
Mind,  you'  re  on  oath,  so  tell  me,  you, 
Who  doubtless  think  yourself  so  clever. 
Are  there  as  many  fools  as  ever 

In  the  West  Riding  ?" 
"■  Y^j — no,  sir,  no ;  we've  got  our  share. 
But  not  so  many  as  when  you  were  there !" 


THE  COLLEGIAN  AND  THE  PORTER. 

At  Trin.  Coll.  Cam. — which  means,  in  proper  spelling, 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  there  resided 

One  Harry  Dashington — a  youth  excelling 
In  all  the  learning  commonly  provided 

For  those  who  choose  that  classic  station 

For  finishing  their  education  : 

That  is,  he  understood  computing 

The  odds  at  any  race  or  match ; 

Was  a  dead  hand  at  pigeon-shooting ; 

Could  kick  up  rows,  knock  down  the  watch — 

Play  truant  and  the  rake  at  random — 

Drink — tie  cravats — and  drive  a  tandem. 

Remonstrance,  fine,  and  rustication, 
So  far  from  working  reformation, 

Seemed  but  to  make  his  lapses  greater, 
Till  he  was  warned  that  next  offence 
Would  have  this  certain  consequence — 

Expulsion  from  his  Alma  Mater. 


THE    COLLEGIAN    AND    THE    PORTER.  159 

One  need  not  be  a  necromancer 

To  guess  that,  with  so  wild  a  wight, 
The  next  offence  occurred  next  night, 
"When  our  incurable  came  rolling 
Home  as  the  midnight  chimes  were  tolling, 

And  rung  the  College  bell. — No  answer. 

The  second  peal  was  vain — the  third 

Made  the  street  echo  its  alarum ; 
When  to  his  great  delight  he  heard 
The  sordid  Janitor,  old  Ben, 
Rousing  and  growling  in  his  den. 

"  Who 's  there? — I  s'pose  young  Ilarum  Scarum." 
"  'Tis  I,  my  worthy  Ben,  'tis  Harry." 
"  Aye,  so  I  thought — and  there  you'll  tarry. 

'Tis  past  the  hour— the  gates  are  closed, 
You  know  my  orders  ;  I  shall  lose 

My  place  if  I  undo  the  door." 
"And  I  (young  Hopeful  interposed) 
"  Shall  be  expelled  if  you  refuse ; 

So  pry  thee" — Ben  began  to  snore. 

'Tm  wet,"  cried  Harry,  "to  the  skin; 

Hip  !  hallo  !  Ben ! — do  n"t  be  a  ninny ; 

Beneath  the  gate  I've  thrust  a  guinea, 
So  tumble  out  and  let  me  in." —  • 

"Humph!"  growled  the  greedy  old  curmudgeon, 
Half  overjoyed  and  half  in  dudgeon, 

^'■Now,  you  may  pass,  but  make  no  fuss. 
On  tiptoe  walk,  and  hold  your  prate." 

"  Look  on  the  stones,  old  Cerberus," 
Cried  Harry  as  he  passed  the  gate, 
"  I've  dropped  a  shilhng — take  the  light. 
You'll  find  it  just  outside ;— good  night." 


IGO  THE    COLLEGIAN    AND    THE    PORTER. 

Behold  the  porter  in  his  shirt, 

Cursing  the  rain  which  never  stopped, 
Groping  and  raking  in  the  dirt, 
And  all  without  success  ;  but  that 
Is  liardlj  to  be  wondered  at, 

Because  no  shilling  had  been  dropped ; 
So  he  gave  o'er  the  search  at  last, 
Regained  the  door  and  found  it  fast ! 

With  sundry  oaths,  and  growls,  and  groans, 

He  rang,  once,  twice,  and  thrice ;  and  then. 

Mingled  with  giggling,  heard  the  tones 
Of  Harry,  mimicking  old  Ben. 

"  Who 's  there  ? — 'Tis  really  a  disgrace 

To  ring  so  loud. — I've  locked  the  gate — 
I  know  my  duty — 'tis  too  late. 
You  would  n't  have  me  lose  my  place  ?" 
"Psha!  Mr.  Dashington :  remember. 
This  is  the  middle  of  November, 

I'm  stripped,  'tis  raining  cats  and  dogs." 
"  Hush,  hush  !"  quoth  Hal,  "  I'm  fast  asleep ;" 
And  then  he  snored  as  loud  and  deep 
As  a  whole  company  of  hogs  : 
"  But,  harkye,  Ben,  Idl  grant  admittance 

At  the  same  rate  I  paid  myself." 
"  Nay,  master,  leave  me  half  the  pittance,' 

Replied  the  avaricious  elf 
"  No :  all  or  none — a  full  acquittance  : 
The  terms,  I  know,  are  somewhat  high ; 
But  you  have  fixed  the  price,  not  I — 
I  won't  take  less,  I  can't  afford  it." 
So,  finding  all  his  haggling  vain, 
Ben,  with  an  oath  and  groan  of  pain, 

Drew  out  the  guinea,  and  restored  it. 


THE   MAYOR   OF   MIROBLAIS.  161 

"  Surely  you  "11  give  me,"  growled  the  outwitted 
Porter,  when  again  admitted, 

"  Something,  now  you  've  done  your  joking. 
For  all  this  trouble,  time,  and  soaking." 

"  Oh  surely,  surely,"  Harry  said; 
"  Since,  as  you  urge,  I  broke  your  rest. 
And  you  're  half  drowned,  and  quite  undress' d, 
I'll  give  you — leave  to  go  to  bed  !" 


THE  MAYOR  OF  MIROBLAIS. 

While  he  was  laying  plans  for  getting 
The  honours  of  the  Chapeau  rouge, 

The  Cardinal  Dubois  was  ever  fretting ; 

All  his  days  and  nights  allotting 

To  bribes  and  schemes,  intriguing,  plotting, 
Until  his  fiice  grew  yellow  as  gamboge, 

His  eyes  sepulchral,  dull,  and  gummy, 

And  his  whole  frame  a  walking  mummy. 

Meanwhile  his  steward,  De  la  Vigne, 
Seemed  to  be  fattening  on  his  master, 

For,  as  the  one  grew  lank  and  lean, 
The  other  only  thrived  the  faster. 


Such  constant  spirits,  laugh,  and  snigger, 
That  it  e'en  "fetruck  his  Excellency, 
Who  called  him  up  and  asked  him  whence  he 
Contrived  to  get  so  plump  and  jolly, 
While  he  himself,  a  man  of  rank, 
Visibly  shrank, 
And  daily  grew  more  melancholy. 


162  THE    MAYOR   OF   MIROBLAIS. 

"  Really,  my  lord,"  the  steAvard  said, 
"  There  's  nothing  marvellous  in  that; 

You  have  a  hat  for  ever  in  your  head, 
My  head  is  always  in  my  hat." 

Dubois,  too  wealthy  to  be  marred  in  all 
His  plots,  was  presently  a  Cardinal, 

And  w^ore  what  he  had  pined  to  win ; 
When  pasquinades  soon  flew  about, 
Hinting  his  sconce  was  deeper  red  without, 

Than  'twas  within. 

Perhaps  it  was,  but  that's  no  matter, 
The  Pope,  like  any  other  hatter, 
Makes  coverings,  not  heads  ;  and  this 

With  its  new  guest  agreed  so  well, 
That  he  soon  wore  an  altered  phiz : 

Ate  heartily,  began  to  swell, 
Recovered  from  his  ails  and  ills. 
And  grew  quite  rosy  in  the  gills. 

'Tis  strange,  but  true,  our  worthy  wore 

Fine  robes,  and  waxed  both  plump  and  fresh, 
Prom  the  first  moment  he  forswore 

All  pomps  and  appetites  of  flesh. — 
His  Eminence,  on  this  inflation 
Roth  of  his  stomach  and  his  station, 

His  old  Chateau  resolved  to  visit, 
Accompanied  by  one  Dupin, 
A  sandy-headed  little  man. 

Who  daily  managed  to  elicit 
Jokes  from  some  French  Joe  Miller's  page, 
Old,  and  but  little  of  their  age ; 


THE   MAYOR   OF   MIROBLAIS.  163 

Though  they  drew  forth  as  never-failiriat 

A  roar  of  hiughter  every  time, 

As  if  they  were  as  new  and  prime 
As  those  which  we  are  now  rctaihng. 

To  the  Chateau  in  Languedoc, 

"Whole  deputations 
From  the  surrounding  districts  flock, 

"With  odes,  addresses,  gratulations, 

And  long  orations ; 
And  amongst  others,  the  Pnfet 

Of  Miroblais, 

Famed  for  its  annual  Fair  of  Asses, 
Began  a  speech  which,  by  its  dull 
Exordium,  threatened  to  be  full 

As  long  and  dry  as  fifty  masses. 

Dupin,  who  saw  his  yawning  master 

Somewhat  annoyed  by  this  disaster. 

And  thought  it  might  be  acceptable 

To  quiz  the  bore,  and  stop  his  gabble, 
Abruptly  cried — "  Pray  Mr.  Mayor, 
How  much  did  asses  fetch,  last  Fair?" 

""Why,  sir,"  the  Avorthy  mayor  replied. 

As  the  impertinent  he  eyed — 

"Small  sandy  ones,  like  you,  might  each 

Sell  for  three  crowns,  and  plenty  too  ;" 
Then  quietly  resumed  his  speech, 

And  mouthed  it  regularly  through. 


164  RABELAIS   AND    THE   LAMPREYS. 


RABELAIS   AXD  THE   LAMPEEYS. 

When  the  eccentric  Rabelais  was  physician 
To  Cardinal  Lorraine,  he  sat  at  dinner 
Beside  that  gormandizing  sinner ; 
Not  like  the  medical  magician 
Who  whisked  from  Sancho  Panza's  fauces 
The  evanescent  meats  and  sauces. 
But  to  protect  his  sacred  master 
Against  such  diet  as  obstructs 
The  action  of  the  epigastre, 
O'erloads  the  biliary  ducts, 
The  peristaltic  motion  crosses. 
And  puzzles  the  digestive  process. 

The  Cardinal,  one  hungry  day, 

First  having  with  his  eyes  consumed 
Some  lampreys  that  before  him  fumed, 
Had  plunged  his  fork  into  the  prey. 
When  Rabelais  gravely  shook  his  head, 
Tapped  on  his  plate  three  times  and  said — 
"  Pah  ! — hard  digestion  !  hard  digestion !' 
And  his  bile-dreading  Eminence, 
Though  sorely  tempted,  had  the  sense 
To  send  it  off  vrithout  a  question. — 

"  Hip  !  Hallo  !  bring  the  lampreys  here!" 
Cried  Rabelais,  as  the  dish  he  snatched ; 

And  gobbling  up  the  dainty  cheer. 
The  whole  was  instantly  dispatched. 

Redden' d  with  vain  attempts  at  stifling 
At  once  his  wrath  and  appetite, 


THE    BITER    BIT.  1G5 

Ilis  patron  cried,  '•  Your  conduct's  rude, 
This  is  no  subject,  sir,  for  trifling ; 
HoAV  dare  you  designate  this  food 
As  indigestible  and  crude, 

Then  swallow  it  before  my  sight?" 

Quoth  Rabelais,  '•  It  may  soon  be  shown 

That  I  don't  merit  this  rebuff: 
I  tapped  the  jolate,  and  that  you'll  own, 
Is  indigestible  enough ; 
But  as  to  this  unlucky  fish. 
With  you  so  strangely  out  of  favour, 

Not  only  'tis  a  wholesome  dish, 
But  one  of  most  delicious  flavour  !" 


THE  BITER  BIT. 


Jack  Dobsox,  honest  son  of  tillage, 

The  Toby  Philpot  of  his  village, 
Laugh'd  and  grew  fat,  Time's  gorgon  visage  braving; 

To  hear  him  cackle  at  a  hoax, 

Or  new  edition  of  old  jokes, 
You'd  think  a  Roman  Capitol  was  saving. 

Not  Boniface,  Avhcn  at  a  mug 

Of  ale  he  gnve  a  hearty  tug, 
Was  fuller  of  his  subject-matter  ; 

And  Dobson  had  a  better  plea 

For  boasting  of  its  pedigree  ; 

For  his  was  brewed  at  homo,  and  he 
JVas  infinitely  fatter. 


166  THE   BITER   BIT. 

One  cask  he  had  better  and  stronger 

Than  all  the  rest  brewed  at  a  christening : 
To  pass  it  set  his  ejes  a  glistening ; 

In  short  he  could  n't  tarrj  longer, 

But  seizing  spiggot  and  a  faucet, 

He  tapp'd  it — quaffed  a  luscious  posset — 

Then,  like  a  hospitable  fellow, 

Sent  for  his  friends  to  make  them  mellow. — 


Among  them  he  invited  one 

Called  Tibbs,  a  simple-minded  wight, 

Whom  waggish  Dobson  took  delight 
To  make  the  subject  of  his  fun  : 
For  Nature  such  few  brains  had  put 
In  neighbour  Tibbs' s  occiput^ 

That  all  the  rustic  wags  and  wits 
Found  him  a  most  convenient  butt 

For  their  good  hits  ; 
Though  sometimes,  as  both  great  and  small  aver, 
He  gave  them  Roland  for  their  Oliver. 

The  guests  all  met,  and  dinner  spread, 
Dobson  first  tipped  the  wink,  then  said, 
"Well,  now,  my  lads,  we'll  all  draw  lots, 

To  settle  which  of  us  shall  go 

Into  the  cellerage  below. 
To  fill  the  pots." 
So  saying,  he  adroitly  wriggled 

The  shortest  into  Tibbs's  paw, 
Whereat  the  others  hugely  giggled, 

And  Tibbs,  obedient  to  the  law, 

Went  down,  the  beverage  to  draw. 


THE   BITER  BIT.  167 

Now,  Farmer  Dobson,  wicked  wag ! 

Over  the  cellar  door  had  slung 

A  water-bowl,  so  slily  hung, 
That  whoso  gave  the  door  a  drag, 

Was  sure  to  shower  down  at  once 

A  quart  of  liquid  on  his  sconce. 

Our  host  and  all  his  brother  wits, 

Soon  as  the  J  heard  their  victim's  tramp, 

Who  looked  half-drowned,  burst  into  fits, 

Which  in  fresh  peals  of  laughter  flamed, 

When  Tibbs  in  drawling  tone,  exclaimed : 

"  Isn't  your  cellar  rather  damp  ?" 

Grace  being  said,  quick  havoc  followed ; 
Many  good  things  were  said  and  swallowed ; — 
Joking,  laughing,  stuflBng,  and  quaffing. 
For  a  full  hour  they  pushed  about 

The  cans,  and  when  there  came  a  pause, 

From  mere  exhaustion  of  their  jaws, 
Tibbs  with  his  nasal  twang  drawled  out — 
"  Suppose  we  now  draw  lots  again. 

Which  of  us  shall  go  down  to  put 

The  spiggot  back  into  the  butt." 
'•Why,  zounds  !"  the  farmer  roared  amain — 
"  The  spiggot  back  !  come,  come,  you're  funning, 
You  haven't  left  the  liquor  running?" 

"I  did  as  I  was  ordered,  Jack," 

Quoth  Tibbs  ; — "  and  if  it  was  intentioned 
That  I  should  put  the  spiggot  back, 

'Tis  a  great  pity  'twas  n't  mentioned; — 
You  've  lost  a  cask  of  precious  stuff". 
But  I,  for  one,  have  drunk  enough.'' 


168  THE    PARSON   AT   FAULT. 

"Ass  !  numskull!  fool!"  the  farmer  cried — 
"  What  can  one  get,  confound  your  souls  ! 
By  asking  such  half-witted  lubbers  V — 
"This  lesson,  neighbour,"  Tibbs  replied — 
"  That  those  who  choose  to  play  at  bowls 
Must  expect  rubbers  !" 


THE  PAESON  AT  FAULT. 

A  COUNTRY  parson  took  a  notion 

Into  his  head,  one  Whitsuntide, 
That  it  was  more  like  true  devotion 

To  preach  extempore  ; — he  tried : 
Succeeded  once — twice — thrice — ^but,  lo  I 

His  fourth  discourse  was  not  forthcoming ; 
Spite  of  his  hawing  and  his  humming. 
Not  a  word  further  could  he  go ; 
So  that  the  worthy  man  perforce 
Was  fain  to  leave  them  in  the  lurch, 
And  say,  that,  since  he  came  to  church. 
He'd  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

Whereat  a  man  below  exclaimed, 

"  Lock  the  doors,  beadle  I  search  us  round, 

All,  every  one,  until  it 's  found  ; 
The  thief  should  really  be  ashamed. — 

Here  are  mij  pockets — ransack  both  I 

/have  it  not,  I  '11  take  my  oath." 


BLIND   man's   buff.  169 


BLIND  MAN'S  BUFF. 

Three  wag3,  (whom  some  fastidious  carpers 
Might  rather  designate  three  sharpers) 

Entered,  at  York,  the  Cat  and  Fiddle, 
And  finding  that  the  host  was  out 

On  business  for  two  hours  or  more, 

While  Sam,  the  rustic  waiter,  wore 
The  visage  of  a  simple  lout, 

Whom  they  might  safely  try  to  diddle, 
They  ordered  dinner  in  a  canter — 

Cold  or  hot,  it  mattered  not, 
Provided  it  were  served  iiistantcr  ; 
And  as  the  heat  had  made  them  very 

Dry  and  dusty  in  their  throttles, 

They  bade  the  waiter  bring  three  bottles 
Of  prime  old  port  and  one  of  sherry.— 

Sam  ran  with  ardour  to  the  larder. 

Then  to  the  kitchen  ; 
And,  as  he  briskly  went  to  work,  he 
Drew  from  the  spit  a  roasting  turkey, 

AYith  sausages  embellished,  which  in 
A  trice  upon  the  board  was  spread, 
Together  with  a  nice  cold  brisket. 
Nor  did  he  even  obliviscate 

Half  a  pig's  head. 
To  these  succeeded  puddings,  pies, 

Custards  and  jellies. 
All  doomed  to  fall  a  sacrifice 

To  their  insatiable  bellies ; 
As  if,  like  camels,  they  intended 


170  BLIND    man's   buff. 

To  stuff  into  their  monstrous  craws 

Enough  to  satisfy  their  maws, 
Until  their  pilgrimage  was  ended. 
Talking,  laughing,  eating,  quaffing. 

The  bottles  stood  no  moment  still ; 
The  J  rallied  Sam  with  joke  and  banter, 
And,  as  they  drained  the  last  decanter, 

Called  for  the  bill.— 


'Twas  brought — when  one  of  them  who  eyed 
And  added  up  the  items,  cried, 

"  Extremely  moderate  indeed  ! 
I'll  make  a  point  to  recommend 
This  inn  to  every  travelling  friend  ; 

And  you,  Sam,  shall  be  doubly  fee'd." 
This  said,  a  weighty  purse  he  droAV, 

When  his  companion  intei'posed — 
' '  Nay,  Harry,  that  will  never  do, 

Pray  let  your  purse  again  be  closed ; 
You  paid  all  charges  yesterday, 
'Tis .clearly  now  my  turn  to  pay." 

Harry,  however,  wouldn't  listen 

To  any  such  insulting  offer, 
His  generous  eyes  appear  to  glisten 

Indignant  at  the  very  proffer ; 
And  though  his  friend  talked  loud,  the  clangour 
Served  but  to  aggravate  Hal's  anger, 

"My  worthy  fellow,"  cried  the  third, 

"  Now  really  this  is  too  absurd  ; 
What !  do  both  of  ye  forget 
I  haven't  paid  a  farthing  yet? 
Am  I  eternally  to  cram 


BLIND    man's    buff.  171 

At  your  expense?  'tis  childish  quite; 
I  claim  this  payment  as  my  right — 
Here — ho^y  much  is  the  money,  Sam?" 

To  this  most  rational  proposal 

The  others  gave  such  fierce  negation,      ^ 
One  might  have  fancied  they  were  foes  all, 

So  hot  became  the  altercation, 
Each  in  his  purse  his  money  rattling, 
Insisting,  arguing,  and  battling. 

One  of  them  cried  at  last — ''A  truce ! — 

This  point  we  will  no  longer  moot ; 
Wrangling  for  trifles  is  no  use, 

And  thus  we  "11  finish  the  dispute. — 
That  we  may  settle  what  we  three  owe, 

We  '11  blindfold  Sam,  and  whichsoe'er 

He  catches  of  us  first  shall  bear 
The  whole  expenses  of  the  trio, 
With  half-a-crown  (if  that 's  enough,) 
To  Sam  for  playing  Blindman's  Buff." 

Sam  liked  it  hugely — thought  the  ransom, 
For  a  good  game  of  fun  was  handsome; 
Gave  his  own  handkerchief  beside. 
To  have  his  eyes  securely  tied. 
And  soon  began  to  grope  and  search  ; 

When  the  three  knaves,  I  need  n't  say. 
Adroitly  left  him  in  the  lurch, 

Slipped  down  the  stairs  and  stole  away. 

Poor  Sam  continued  hard  at  work  ; — 

Now  o'er  a  chair  he  gets  a  fall ; 
Now  floundering  forwards  with  a  jerk. 

He  bobs  his  nose  against  the  wall ; 


172        THE  POET  AND  THE  ALCHEMIST. 

And  now  encouraged  by  a  subtle 
Fane  J,  that  thej  're  near  the  door, 
He  jumps  behind  it  to  explore, 

And  breaks  his  shins  against  the  scuttle. — 

Crying,  at  each  disaster — "  Drat  it ! 

Dang  it !  'od  rabbit  it !  and  rat  it !" — 

Just  in  this  crisis  of  his  doom, 

The  host,  returning,  sought  the  room ; 

And  Sam  no  sooner  heard  his  tread. 
Than,  pouncing  on  him  like  a  bruin, 
He  almost  shook  him  into  ruin. 

And  with  a  shout  of  laughter  said — 

"  By  gom,  I've  cotched  thee  now,  so  down 
With  cash  for  all,  and  my  half  crown  !" — 

03"  went  the  bandage,  and  his  eyes 

Seemed  to  be  goggling  o'er  his  forehead, 
While  his  mouth  widened  with  a  horrid 

Look  of  agonised  surprise. 

'•' Gull!"  roared  his  master,  "Gudgeon!  dunce! 
Fool  as  you  are  you  're  right  for  once, 
'Tis'  clear  that  I  must  pay  the  sum  ; — 

But  this  one  thought  my  wrath  assuages — 
That  every  halfpenny  shall  come 

Out  of  your  wages  !" 


THE  POET  AND  THE  ALCHEMIST. 

Authors  of  modern  date  are  wealthy  fellows  ;- 
'Tis  but  to  snip  his  locks  and  follow 
Now  the  golden-haired  Apollo 

Invoking  Plutus  to  blow  up  the  bellows 


THE    POET   AND    THE   ALCHEMIST.  173 

Of  inspiration,  they  distil 
The  rhymes  and  novels  which  cajole  us, 

Not  from  the  Heliconian  rill, 
But  from  the  waters  of  Pactolus. 


Before  this  golden  age  of  writers, 

A  Grub-street  Garreteer  existed, 
One  of  the  regular  inditcrs 

Of  odes  and  poems  to  be  twisted 

Into  encomiastic  verses, 

For  patrons  who  have  heavy  purses. 
Besides  the  Bellman's  rhymes,  he  had 
Others  to  let  both  gay  and  sad, 

All  ticketed  from  A  to  Izzard ; 
And  living  by  his  wits,  I  need  not  add. 

The  rogue  was  lean  as  any  lizard. 

Like  a  rope-maker's  were  his  ways, 
For  still  one  line  upon  another 
He  spun,  and,  like  his  hempen  brother, 

Kept  going  backwards  all  his  days. 

Hard  by  his  attic  lived  a  Chemist, 

Or  Alchemist,  who  had  a  mighty 
Faith  in  the  Elixir  Vitae ; 

And  though  unflattered  by  the  dimmest 
Glimpses  of  success,  kept  groping 

And  grubbing  in  his  dark  vocation, 
Stupidly  hoping 

To  find  the  art  of  changing  metals. 

And  guineas  coin  from  pots  and  kettles, 

By  mystery  of  transmutation. 


174  THE    POET   AND    THE    ALCHEMIST. 

Our  starving  poet  took  occasion 

To  seek  this  conjuror's  abode ; 

Not  with  encomiastic  ode, 
Or  laudatory  dedication, 
But  with  an  offer  to  impart. 
For  twenty  pounds,  the  secret  art, 
Which  shoukl  procure,  without  the  pain 

Of  metals,  chemistry,  and  fire, 
What  he  so  long  had  sought  in  vain, 

And  gratify  his  heart's  desire. 

The  money  paid,  our  bard  was  hurried 

To  the  philosopher's  sanctorum, 
Who,  somewhat  sublimized  and  flurried 

Out  of  his  chemical  decorum. 
Crowed,  capered,  giggled,  seemed  to  spurn  his 
Crucibles,  retort,  and  furnace. 
And  cried  as  he  secured  the  door, 

And  carefully  put  to  the  shutter, 
"  Now,  now,  the  secret  I  implore ; 

For  God's  sake  speak,  discover,  utter !" 

With  grave  and  solemn  air  the  Poet 

Cried — "  List — oh,  list !  for  thus  I  show  it: — 

Let  this  plain  truth  those  ingrates  strike. 

Who  still,  though  blessed,  new  blessings  crave, 
That  we  may  all  have  what  we  like. 

Simply  by  liking  what  we  have  1" 


THE   ASTRONOMICAL   ALDERMAN.  175 


THE  ASTRONOMICAL  ALDERMAN. 

The  pedant  or  scholastikos  became 

The  butt  of  all  the  Grecian  jokes; — 
With  us,  poor  Paddy  bears  the  blame 

Of  blunders  made  by  other  folks ; 
Though  we  have  certain  civic  sages 

Termed  Aldermen,  who  perpetrate 

Bulls  as  legitimate  and  great, 
As  any  that  the  classic  pages 

Of  old  Hierocles  can  show, 
Or  Mr.  Miller's,  commonly  called  Joe. — 

One  of  these  turtle-eating  men, 
Not  much  excelling  in  his  spelling. 

When  ridicule  he  meant  to  brave, 
Said  he  w^as  more  PH.  than  N. 

Meaning  thereby,  more  phool  than  nave. 
Though  they  who  knew  our  cunning  Thraso, 
Pronounced  it  flattery  to  say  so. 
His  Civic  brethren  to  express 

His  "  double,  double,  toil  and  trouble," 
And  bustling  noisy  emptiness. 

Had  christened  him  Sir  Hubble  Bubble. 

This  wight  ventripotent  was  dining 
Once  at  the  Grocers'  Hall,  and  lining 

With  calipee  and  calipash 
That  tomb  omnivorous — his  paunch, 
Then  on  the  haunch 

Inflicting  many  a  horrid  gash. 
When  having  swallowed  six  or  seven 


176  SOUTH-DOWN   MUTTON. 

Pounds,  he  fell  into  a  mood 

Of  such  supreme  beatitude, 
That  it  reminded  him  of  Heaven, 
And  he  began  with  mighty  bonhomie 
To  talk  Astronomy. — 

"  Sir,"  he  exclaimed,  between  his  bumpers, 
"  Copernicus  and  Tycho-Brahe, 
And  all  those  chaps,  have  had  their  day ; 
They  've  written  monstrous  lies,  sir,  thumpers  !- 
Move  round  the  sun  ? — it 's  talking  treason ; 
The  earth  stands  still — it  stands  to  reason. — 
Round  as  a  globe  ?  stuff — humbug — fable  ! 
It 's  a  flat  sphere,  like  this  here  table, 
And  the  sun  overhangs  this  sphere. 
Ay — just  like  that  there  chandelier." 

"  But,"  quoth  his  neighbour,  "  when  the  sun 
From  East  to  West  his  course  has  run, 
How  comes  it  that  he  shows  his  face 
Next  morning  in  his  former  place?" 
''Ho  !  there's  a  pretty  question,  truly  I" 
Replied  our  wight,  with  an  unruly 

Burst  of  laughter  and  delight. 
So  much  his  triumph  seemed  to  please  him ; 

' '  Why,  blockhead !  he  goes  back  at  night, 
And  that's  the  reason  no  one  sees  him  !" 


SOUTH-DOWN   MUTTON. 

If  men,  when  in  a  rage,  inspected 
Before  a  glass,  their  angry  features, 

Most  likely  they  would  stand  corrected 
At  sight  of  such  distorted  creatures ; 


SOUTH-DOWN    MUTTON.  177 

So  VTC  may  hold  a  moral  mirror 
Before  these  myrmidons  of  passion, 

And  make  ill  temper  see  its  error, 
By  gravely  mimicking  its  fashion. 

A  sober  Cit  of  Sweeting's  Alley, 

Deemed  a  warm  man  on  'Change,  was  what 

In  temper  might  be  reckoned  hot. 
Indulging  many  an  angry  sally 
Against  his  Avife  and  servants  : — (this 

Is  no  unprecedented  state 

For  man  and  wife,  when,  tCte-d-ttte, 
They  revel  in  domestic  bliss,) — 
But  to  show  off  his  freaks  before  his 
Guests,  was  contra  bonos  mores. 

Our  Cit  was  somewhat  of  a  glutton, 
Or  epicure,  at  least  in  mutton ; 
Esteeming  it  a  more  delicious 
Feast,  than  those  of  old  Apicius, 
Crassus'  savoury  symposia, 
Or  even  Jupiter's  ambrosia. 

One  day  a  leg  arrived  from  Brighton, 

A  true  South  Down  legitimate, 
When  he  enlarged  with  much  deliglit  on 

The  fat  and  grain,  and  shape  and  weight ; 
Pronounced  on  each  a  learned  stricture, 
Declared  the  joint  a  perfect  picture, 
And  as  his  eye  its  outline  followed, 

Called  it  a  prize — a  lucky  hit — 

A  gem — a  pearl  more  exquisite 
Than  ever  Cleopatra  swallowed ; 
Promulging  finally,  this  fiat — 
"  I'll  dine  at  five,  and  ask  Jack  Wyatt." 
8* 


178  SOUTH-DOWN    MUTTON. 

The  cover  raised,  the  meat  he  eyed 

With  new  enjoyment — next  the  cloth  he 

Tucked  in  his  hutton-hole,  and  cried, 
"  Done  to  a  tittle — brown  and  frothy  !" 

Then  seized  the  carving-knife,  elate. 

But  lo !  it  would  not  penetrate 

The  skin — (the  anatomic  term  is 

The  what-d'-ye-call  ? — ay — epidermis.) 

He  felt  the  edge — 'twas  like  a  dump  ; 

Whereat  with  passion-crimson'd  frown, 
He  reached  the  stair-head  at  a  jump, 

And  threw  the  blade  in  fury  down, 
Venting  unnumbered  curses  on 
His  thoughtless  lazy  servant — John. 

His  guest,  observing  this  disclosure 

Of  temper,  threw  with  great  composure 

The  dish,  with  mutton,  spoons  and  all, 

Down  helter-skelter  to  the  hall. 

Where  it  arrived  Avith  fearful  clatter. 

"  Zounds !"  cried  the  Cit,  "why,  what's  the  matter?' 

'■•  Nothing  whatever,"  with  a  quiet 

Look  and  accent,  answered  Wyatt : 

" I  hope  I  haven't  unawares 
Made  a  mistake ;  but  when  you  threw 
The  knife  below,  in  such  a  stew, 

I  thought  you  meant  to  dine  down  stairs  !" 


EVENING.  179 


EVENING:    AN  ELEGY. 

BY   A   POETICAL   CARMAN. 

Apollo  now,  Sol's  carman,  drives  his  stud 
Home  to  the  meAvs  that 's  seated  in  the  West, 

And  Customs'  clerks,  like  him,  through  Thames-street 
mud, 
Now  westering  wend,  in  Holland  trowsers  dress'd. 

So  from  the  stands  the  empty  carts  are  dragged, 
The  horses  homeward  to  then*  stables  go. 

And  mine,  with  hauling  heavy  hogsheads  fagged,  ' 
Prepare  to  taste  the  luxury  of — "Wo!" 

!Now  from  the  slaughter-houses  cattle  roar, 

Knowing  that  with  the  morn  their  lives  they  yields, 

And  Mr.  Sweetman's  gig  is  at  the  door, 

To  take  him  to  his  house  in  Hackney  Fields. 

Closed  are  the  gates  of  the  West  India  Docks, 
Rums,  Sugars,  Coffee,  find  at  length  repose. 

And  I,  with  other  careless  carmen,  flocks 

To  the  King's  Head,  the  Chequers,  or  the  Rose, 

They  smoke  a  pipe — the  shepherd's  pipe  I  wakes, 
Them  skittles  pleases — me  the  Muse  invites. 

They  in  their  ignorance  to  drinking  takes, 

I,  blessed  with  learning,  takes  a  pen  and  writes. 


180  PATENT    BROWN    STOUT. 


PATENT  BROWN  STOUT. 

A  Brewer,  in  a  country  town, 

Had  got  a  monstrous  reputation ; 
No  other  beer  but  his  went  down ; — 

The  hosts  of  the  surrounding  station 
Engi-aved  his  name  upon  their  mugs, 

And  painted  it  on  every  shutter  ; 

And  though  some  envious  folks  would  utter 
Hints,  that  its  flavour  came  from  drugs, 
Others  maintained  'twas  no  such  matter, 

But  owing  to  his  monstrous  vat, 

At  least  as  corpulent  as  that 
At  Heidelberg — and  some  said  fatter. 

His  foreman  was  a  lusty  Black, 

An  honest  fellow ; 
But  one  who  had  an  ugly  knack 
Of  tasting  samples  as  he  brewed, 

Till  he  was  stupefied  and  mellow. 
One  day,  in  this  top-heavy  mood. 
Having  to  cross  the  vat  aforesaid, 

(Just  then  with  boiling  beer  supplied,) 
O'ercome  with  giddiness  and  qualms,  he 
Heeled — fell  in — and  nothing  more  said, 
Biit  in  his  favourite  liquor  died. 

Like  Clarence  in  his  butt  of  Malmsey. 

In  all  directions 'round  about 

The  negro  absentee  was  sought ; 

But  as  no  human  noddle  thought 
That  our  Fat  Black  was  now  Brown  Stout, 
They  settled  that  the  rogue  had  left 
The  place  for  debt,  or  crime  or  theft. 


PATENT  BROWN  STOUT.  181 

Meanwhile  the  liecr  was,  day  by  day, 
Drawn  into  casks  and  sent  away, 

Until  the  lees  flowed  thick  and  thicker ; 
When  lo !  outstretched  upon  the  ground, 
Once  more  their  missing  friend  they  found, 

As  they  had  often  done  — in  liquor. 

"  See  !*'  cried  his  moralizing  master, 

"I  always  knew  the  fello\v  drank  hard, 
And  prophesied  some  sad  disaster ; 
His  fate  should  other  tipplers  strike  : 
Poor  Mungo !  there  he  welters,  like 

A  toast  at  bottom  of  a  tankard!" 
Next  morn  a  publican,  whose  tap 

Had  helped  to  drain  the  vat  so  dry. 
Not  having  heard  of  the  mishap. 

Came  to  demand  a  fresh  supply. 
Protesting  loudly  that  the  last 
All  previous  specimens  surpassed, 
Possessing  a  much  richer  (justo 
Than  formerly  it  ever  used  to. 
And  begging,  as  a  special  favour, 
Some  more  of  the  exact  same  flavour. — 
'■  Zounds !"  cried  the  Brewer,  "that 's  a  task 
More  difficult  to  grant  than  ask : — 
Most  gladly  would  I  give  the  smack 

Of  the  last  beer  to  the  ensuing, 
But  -where  am  I  to  find  a  Black, 

And  boil  him  down  at  every  brewing?" 


182  YORK    KIDNEY    POTATOES. 


YORK  KIDNEY   POTATOES. 

One  Farmer  Giles,  an  honest  clown 
From  Peterborough,  had  occasion 

To  travel  up  to  London  town, 
About  the  death  of  a  relation, 

And  wrote,  his  purjDOse  to  explain, 

To  cousin  Jos.  in  Martin's  lane  ; 

Who  quickly  sent  him  such  an  answer,  as 
Might  best  determine  him  to  dwell 
At  the  Blue  Boar — the  Cross — the  Bell, 

Or  some  one  of  the  caravanseras 

To  which  the  various  coaches  went — 

All  which,  he  said,  were  excellent. 

Quoth  Giles,  "  I  think  it  rather  odd  he 
Should  write  me  thus,  when  I  have  read 
That  London  hosts  will  steal  at  dead 
Of  night,  to  stab  you  in  your  bed. 

Pocket  your  purse,  and  sell  your  body ; 

To  'scape  from  which  unpleasant  process, 

I'll  drive  at  once  to  cousin  Jos.'s."' 

Now  cousin  Jos.  (whose  name  was  Spriggs) 
Was  one  of  those  punctilious  prigs 

Who  reverence  the  comme  il  faut  ; 
Who  deem  it  criminal  to  vary 
From  modes  prescribed,  and  thus  "Monstrari 

Pretereuntium  digito." 

Conceive  him  writhing  down  the  Strand 
With  a  live  rustic  in  his  hand. 
At  once  the  gaper  and  gapee ; 


YORK  KIDNEY  POTATOES.  183 

And  pity  his  unhappy  plight, 
ConJcnmcd  -when,  tcte-ii-tctc,  at  night 
To  talk  of  hogs,  nor  deem  it  right 
To  show  his  horrible  ennid. 

Jos.  was  of  learned  notoriety, 

One  of  the  male  Blue-stocking  clan, 

Was  registered  of  each  Society, 
Royal  and  Antiquarian ; 

Took  in  the  Scientific  Journal, 

And  Avrote  for  Mr.  Urban' s  Mag. 

(For  fear  its  liveliness  should  flag,) 

A  thermometrical  diurnal, 

With  statements  of  old  tombs  and  churches, 

And  such  unreadable  researches. 

Wearied  to  death,  one  Thursday  night. 
With  hearing  our  agrarian  wight 

Prose  about  crops,  and  farms  and  dairies, 
Spriggs  cried — "A  truce  to  corn  and  hay — 
Somerset  House  is  no  great  way. 

We  '11  go  and  see  the  Antiquaries." — 

'•  And  what  are  they?"'  inquired  his  guest : — 
"Why,  sir,"  said  Jos.,  somewhat distress'd 

To  answer  his  interrogator — 
"  They  are  a  sort — a  sort — a  kind 

Of  commentators  upon  Nature." — 
"T\Tiat,  common  'tatoes  !"  Giles  rejoin' d, 

His  fist  upon  the  table  dashing: 
"Take  my  advice — don't  purchase  one, 
Not  even  at  a  groat  a  ton, — 

None  but  York  kidneys  does  for  mashing." 


184  THE    JESTER    CONDEMNED    TO    DEATH. 


THE  JESTER  CONDEMNED  TO  DEATH. 

One  of  the  Kings  of  Scanderoon, 

A  royal  jester, 
Had  in  his  train  a  gross  buffoon, 

Who  used  to  pester 
The  court  with  tricks  inopportune, 
Venting  on  the  highest  folks  his 
Scurvy  pleasantries  and  hoaxes. 

It  needs  some  sense  to  play  the  fool ; 

Which  wholesome  rule 
Occurred  not  to  our  jackanapes, 

Who  consequently  found  his  freaks 
Lead  to  innumerable  scrapes, 

And  quite  as  many  kicks  and  tweaks, 
Which  only  seemed  to  make  him  faster 
Try  the  patience  of  his  master. 

Some  sin  at  last  beyond  all  measure. 
Incurred  the  desperate  displeasure 

Of  his  serene  and  raging  highness  : 
Whether  the  wag  had  twitched  his  beard. 
Which  he  was  bound  to  have  revered, 

Or  had  intruded  on  the  shyness 
Of  the  seraglio,  or  let  fly 
An  epigram  at  royalty, 
None  knows — his  sin  was  an  occult  one ; 
But  records  tell  us  that  the  sultan, 
Meaning  to  terrify  the  knave, 

Exclaimed — "  'Tis  time  to  stop  that  breath ; 
Thy  doom  is  sealed ; — presumptuous  slave ! 

Thou  stand'st  condemned  to  certain  death. 


LAUS   ATRAMENTI.  185 

Silence,  base  rebel ! — no  replying ! — 
But  such  is  my  indulgence  still, 
That,  of  my  own  free  grace  and  "will, 

I  leave  to  thee  the  mode  of  dying." 

"Thy  royal  will  be  done — 'tis  just," 
Replied  the  wretch,  and  kissed  the  dust ; 

'•  Since  my  last  moments  to  assuage, 
Your  majesty's  humane  decree 
Has  deigned  to  leave  the  choice  to  me, 

I'll  die,  so  please  you,  of  old  age." 


LAUS    ATRAMENTI, 
Or  the  Praise  of  Blacking. 

A    NEW     BONO. 

Our  Sires  were  such  pedagogue  blockheads  of  yore, 

That  they  sent  us  to  college  instruction  to  seek, 
Where  Ave  bothered  our  brains  with  pedantical  lore, 

Law,  Logic,  and  Algebra,  Latin  and  Greek  ; 
But  now,  wiser  grown,  leaving  learning  alone. 
And  resolving  to  shine  by  a  light  of  our  own. 
Our  cares  we  transfer  from  the  head  to  the  foot. 
Leave  the  brain  to  be  muddied,  and  polish  the  boot. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  ye  classical  fools, 

AVho  with  Lycophron's  crabbedness  puzzle  your  ear. 
And  ye  who  learn  logarithmetical  rules 

At  Cambridge,  from  tables  of  Baron  Napier, 
Renounce  Aristotle,  and  take  to  the  bottle 
That  wears  '•  Patent  Blacking"  inscribed  on  its  throttle ; 
For  Napier  and  Greek  are  by  few  understood. 
While  all  can  decide  when  your  blacking  is  good. 


186  LAUS    ATRAMENTI. 

When  a  gentleman  dubbed  by  tlie  wight  of  the  brush, 

Which  has  set  up  your  foot  in  Corinthian  style, 
For  the  rest  of  your  wardrobe  you  care  not  a  rush, 

Secure  of  the  public's  distinguishing  smile. 
Though  your  dress  may  be  dusty,  and  musty,  and  fusty, 
You're  whitewashed  by  blacking,  and  cannot  be  rusty ; — 
Such  errors  as  these  are  but  venial  and  small, 
People  look  at  your  boot,  which  atones  for  them  all. 

And  ye  who  are  struggling  your  fortune  to  make 

By  the  brief  or  the  bolus,  law,  commerce,  or  trade. 
Your  pitiful  schemes  of  ambition  forsake, 

And  be  makers  of  blacking,  by  taunts  undismayed ; 
For  what  is  auguster  than  giving  a  lustre 
To  those  who  without  you  would  hardly  pass  muster, 
And  by  selling  your  "brilliant  and  beautiful  jet," 
A  name  and  a  fortune  together  to  get  ? 

Day  and  Martin  now  laugh  as  they  ride  in  their  coach, 
Till  they're  black  in  the  face  as  their  customers'  boots ; 

Warren  swears  that  his  blacking 's  beyond  all  approach, 
AVhich  Turner's  advertisement  plumply  refutes  ; 

Tbey  hector  and  huff,  print,  publish,  and  puff, 

And  write  in  the  papers  ridiculous  stuff. 

While  Hunt,  who  was  blackened  by  all,  and  run  down, 

Takes  a  thriving  revenge  as  he  blackens  the  town. 

Their  labels  belibel  each  other — each  wall 

With  the  feuds  of  these  rivals  in  blacking  is  white ; 
But  the  high  polished  town  seems  to  patronise  all, 
And  the  pai^ties  get  rich  in  each  other's  despite ; 
For  my  own  part,  I  think  I  shall  mix  up  my  ink, 
In  a  bottle  with  lamp-black  and  beer  to  the  brink, 
And  set  up  at  once  for  a  shiner  of  shoes, 
Since  I  never  shall  shine  by  the  aid  of  the  muse. 


THE    TWO    BRACELETS.  187 


THE  TWO   BRACELETS. 

A  Farmer  General,  one  Monsieur  B , 

Who  dwelt  in  France  when  Louis  held  the  throne, 

Lived  like  a  prince  from  everj  trouble  free, 
Except  a  wife — (the  exception 's  large,  I  own) 

For  she  was  fat  as  any  marchioness. 

And  given  to  extravagance  in  dress. — 

One  day  she  bought  a  pair  of  bracelets — such 
As  few  but  royal  damsels  would  bespeak ; 

They  cost — I  cannot  recollect  how  much. 
But  they  were  quite  magnificent — unique — 

And  having  clasped  them  on,  away  she  flies 

Off  to  the  Opera  to  show  her  prize. 

It  happened  that  the  queen  was  there  that  night, 
Just  opposite  the  box  that  Madame  took, 

And  on  the  bracelets  with  intense  delight 

Frequently  looked — or  else  appeared  to  look ; 

For  she  took  special  care  to  have  them  seen, 

As  if  on  purpose  to  outvie  the  queen. 

Soon  to  the  box  door  came  a  Page,  attired 
Li  the  Queen's  proper  livery,  all  in  style, 

And  in  the  name  of  Majesty  required 
One  of  the  bracelets  for  a  little  while. 

That  by  her  eye  she  might  the  pattern  take, 

And  order  some  of  tlie  exact  same  make. 

Off  went  the  sparkling  bauble  in  a  trice, 

While  her  rouged  cheeks  with  exultation  burn, 

As,  bowing  to  the  Royal  party  thrice, 
She  patiently  awaited  its  return ; 


188  THE   TWO   BRACELETS. 

But  when  the  Queen  retired,  and  none  was  sent, 
Our  dame  began  to  wonder  what  it  meant. — 

A  Lord  in  waiting  soon  confirmed  her  fears ; 

"  Oh,  that  pretended  Page  I've  often  seen — 
A  noted  sharper — has  been  such  for  years. 

Madame,  you're  robbed — he  came  not  from  the  Queen; 
I  knew  the  rogue,  and  should  have  had  him  taken, 
But  that  he  shpped  awaj  and  saved  his  bacon." 

Boiling  with  anger,  Madame  called  her  coach, 
And  drove  to  the  Bureau  de  la  Justice, 

Where,  with  loud  tongue,  and  many  a  keen  reproach. 
About  the  shameful  state  of  the  police, 

She  called  upon  the  Provost  for  relief. 

And  bade  him  send  his  men  to  catch  the  thief 

Early  next  morn  she  heard  the  knocker's  din ; 

Her  heart  beat  high,  with  expectation  big, 
When  lo !  the  Provost's  Clerk  was  ushered  in — 

A  formal  consequential  little  prig. 
Who,  with  a  mighty  magisterial  air, 
Hemmed,  and  began  his  errand  to  declare  : — 

"Madame,  a  man  is  brought  to  our  bureau, 
On  whom  was  found  a  bracelet  of  great  cost, 

And  we  are  all  anxiety  to  know 

Whether  or  not  it  is  the  one  you  lost ; 

Wherefore  I'll  take  the  other,  if  you  please, 

Just  to  compare,  and  see  if  it  agrees." 

"  Dear  sir,  I'm  overjoyed— 'tis  mine,  I'm  sure  ; 

Such  a  police  as  ours  how  few  can  boast ! 
Here,  take  the  bracelet — keep  the  rogue  secure, 

I'll  follow  you  in  half  an  hour  at  most; 
Ten  thousand  thanks — I  hope  you  '11  trounce  the  spark, 
Open  the  door,  there,  for  the  Provost's  Clerk  !" 


MARSHAL   SAXE    AND    HIS    PHYSICIAN.  189 

Oh !  how  she  chuckled  as  she  drove  along, 
Settling  Avhat  pangs  the  pilferer  should  feel : 

No  punishment  appeared  to  her  too  strong, 

Even  should  the  wretch  be  broken  on  the  wheel ; 

For  what  infliction  could  be  reckoned  cruel, 

To  one  who  would  purloin  so  rich  a  jewel  ? 

Arrived  at  the  bureau,  her  joy  finds  vent : 

"Well,  Mr.  Provost,  where 's  the  guilty  knave? 

The  other  bracelet  by  your  clerk  I  sent, 

Doubtless  it  matches  with  the  one  you  have ; 

Why,  then,  outstretch  your  mouth  with  such  surprise, 

And  goggle  on  me  thus  with  all  your  eyes?'' 

"La!   bless  me,  Ma'am,   you're  finely  hoaxed — good 
lack! 

I  sent  no  clerk,  no  thief  have  we  found  out, 
And  the  important  little  prig  in  black 

Was  the  accomplice  of  the  page  no  doubt ; 
Methinks  the  rascals  might  have  left  you  one. 
But  both  your  bracelets  now  are  fairly  gone  !" 


MARSHAL   SAXE   AND    HIS    PHYSICUN. 

Fever's  a  most  audacious  varlet; — 
Now  in  a  general's  face  he  shakes 
ILs  all-defying  fist,  and  makes 

His  visage  like  his  jacket — scarlet; 

Now  o'er  surrounding  guards  he  throws 
A  summerset,  and  never  squeaks 
"An'  please  your  Majesty,"  but  tweaks 

The  Lord's  anointed  by  the  nose. 


190  MARSHAL   SAXE    AXD    HIS    PHYSICIAN. 

With  his  inflammatory  finger, 

(Much  like  the  heater  of  an  urn) 
He  makes  the  pulses  boil  and  burn, 
Puts  fur  upon  the  tongue,  (not  ermine,) 
And  leaves  his  prey  to  die  or  linger, 
Just  as  the  doctors  may  determine. 

Though  this  disorder  sometimes  seems 

Mild  and  benignant, 
It  interferes  so  with  our  schemes. 
Imparting  to  our  heads  a  dizziness, 
Just  -when  we  want  them  clear  for  business. 

That  it  may  well  be  termed  malignant. 

Of  these  inopportune  attacks, 
One  fiercely  fell  on  Marshal  Saxe, 
Just  as  his  troops  had  opened  trenches 

Before  a  fortress ;   (what  a  pity  !) 
Not  only  did  it  make  his  heart  ache 
To  be  condemned  to  pill,  cathartic, 
Bolus,  and  blister,  drugs  and  drenches. 
But  shocked  his  miUtary  notions. 
To  make  him  take  unwished-for  potions. 

Instead  of  taking,  as  he  wished — the  city. 

Sexac,  however,  his  physician. 
Soon  gave  our  invalid  permission 

To  be  coached  out  an  easy  distance, 
First  stipulating  one  condition — 
That  whatsoe'er  the  when  and  where, 
The  Doctor  should  be  then  and  there. 
Lest  any  syncope,  relapse, 
Or  other  unforeseen  mishaps, 

Should  call  for  medical  assistance. 


MARSHAL   SAXE   AND    HIS   PHYSICIAN.  191 

Saxe  gives  consent  with  all  bis  heart, 

Orders  the  carriage  in  a  minute, 

Whispers  the  coachman — mounts  Avithin  it, 
Senac  the  same,  and  off  thej  start, 
Joking,  smiling,  time  beguiling, 

In  a  facetious  ttte-a-ttte. — 
The  subject  of  their  mutual  chatter  is 

Nothing  to  us  ; — enough  to  state 
That  Marshal  Saxe  at  length  got  out 
To  reconnoitre  a  redoubt, 
Projecting  from  a  range  of  batteries. 

Left  in  the  carriage,  our  physician, 
By  no  means  relished  his  position, 
When  he  discovered  they  had  got 
Nearly  -within  half  camion  shot; 
Wherefore  he  bawled,  with  fear  half  melted, 

"  For  God's  sake  move  me  from  this  spot ! — 
Doubtless  they've  noticed  our  approach, 
And,  when  they  recognize  your  coach. 
Shan't  I  be  fired  at,  peppered,  pelted, 
(When  I  can  neither  fly  nor  hide) 

From  some  of  yonder  bristling  masses?" 
"It's  not  unlikely,"  Saxe  replied; 
"  And  war  I  know  is  not  your  trade, 
So  if  you  feel  the  least  afraid, 

Pull  up  the  glasses!" 


192  STANZAS   TO    PUNCHINELLO. 


STANZAS  TO  PUNCHINELLO. 

Thou  lignum-vitse  Roscius,  who 

Dost  the  old  vagrant  stage  renew, 
Peerless,  inimitable,  Punchinello ! 

The  Queen  of  smiles  is  quite  out-done 

By  thee,  all-glorious  king  of  fun, 
Thou  grinning,  giggling,  laugh-extorting  fellow ! 

At  other  times  mine  ear  is  wrung 

Whene'er  I  hear  the  trumpet's  tongue. 
Waking  associations  melancholic ; 

But  that  which  heralds  thee  recalls 

All  childhood's  joys  and  festivals. 
And  makes  the  heart  rebound  with  freak  and  frolic. 

Ere  of  thy  face  I  get  a  snatch. 

Oh  !  with  what  boyish  glee  I  catch 
Thy  twittering,  cackling,  bubbling,  squeaking  gibber — 

Sweeter  than  syren  voices — fraught 

With  richer  merriment  than  aught 
That  drops  from  witling  mouths,  though  uttered  glibber. 

What  way  was  ever  known  before 

To  keep  the  circle  in  a  roar. 
Nor  wound  the  feelings  of  a  single  hearer ! 

Engrossing  all  the  jibes  and  jokes, 

Unenvied  by  the  duller  folks, 
A  harmless  wit — an  unmalignant  jeerer. 

The  upturned  eyes  I  love  to  trace 
Of  wondering  mortals,  when  their  face 
Is  all  alive  with  an  expectant  gladness  •, 


STANZAS   TO    PUNCHINELLO.  193 

To  mark  the  flickering  giggle  first, 
The  growing  grin — the  sudden  burst, 
And  universal  shout  of  merry  madness. 

I  love  those  sounds  to  analyse, 

From  childhood's  shrill  ecstatic  cries. 
To  age's  chuckle  with  its  coughing  after ; 

To  see  the  grave  and  the  genteel 

Rein  awhile  the  mirth  they  feel. 
Then  loose  their  muscles,  and  let  out  the  laughter. 

Sometimes  I  note  a  henpecked  wight 

Enjoying  thy  marital  might, 
To  him  a  beatific  beau  ideal ; 

He  counts  each  crack  on  Judy's  pate, 

Then  homeward  creeps  to  cogitate 
The  dijBference  'twixt  dramatic  wives  and  real. 

But,  Punch,  thou'rt  ungallant  and  rude, 

In  plying  thy  persuasive  wood  ; 
Remember  that  thy  cudgel's  girth  is  fuller 

Than  that  compassionate,  thumb-thick. 

Established  wife-compelling  stick. 
Made  legal  by  the  dictum  of  Judge  Buller. 

When  the  ofiBcious  doctor  hies 

To  cure  thy  spouse,  there's  no  surprise  ; 
Thou  should" St  receive  him  with  nose- tweaking 
grappling ; 

Nor  can  we  wonder  that  the  mol) 

Encores  each  crack  upon  his  nob. 
When  thou  art  feeing  him  with  oaken  sapling. 

As  for  our  common  enemy, 
Old  Nick,  we  all  rejoice  to  see 
The  coup  de  grace  that  silences  his  wrangle ; 
0 


194  THE    PLEASANT   TETE-A-TETE. 

But,  lo !  Jack  Ketch ! — ah,  welladay  ! 
Dramatic  justice  claims  its  prej, 
And  thou  in  hempen  handkerchief  must  dangle. 

Now  helpless  hang  those  arms  which  once 

Rattled  such  music  on  the  sconce  ; 
Hushed  is  that  tongue  which  late  out-jested  Yorick : 

That  hunch  behind  is  shrugged  no  more, 

No  longer  heaves  the  paunch  before, 
Which  Avagged  with  such  a  pleasantry  plethorick. 

But  Thespian  deaths  are  transient  woes, 

And  still  less  durable  are  those 
Suffered  by  lignum- vitse  malefactors ; 

Thou  wilt  return  alert,  alive, 

And  long,  oh  long  mayest  thou  survive, 
First  of  head-breaking  and  side-splitting  actors ! 


THE  PLEASANT  TETE-A-TETE. 

The  Isle  of  Saint  Eustatia,  which  the  Dutch 
First  colonized,  was  governed  long  ago — 

(I  mean  mis-governed) — by  the  Herr  Van  Gutch, 
As  great  a  rogue  as  one  would  wish  to  know, 

Who  should,  instead  of  ruling  at  Eustatia, 

Have  shared  a  convict's  fate  in  Australasia. 

No  excellency  could  the  knave  pretend  to. 
Save  in  his  title,  which  the  folks  about  him 

Lavished  upon  him  as  an  innuendo. 

Ironically  meant  to  mock  and  flout  him ; 

For  he  had  proved  himself  in  every  case 

Sordid,  corrupt,  extortionate,  and  base. 


THE    PLEASANT   TETE-A-TETE.  195 

Lord  Bacon  urged  that  when  in  bribes  he  did  err, 

Justice,  but  not  injustice,  he  had  sold; 
Van  Gutch  sold  cither  to  the  highest  bidder ; 

So  that  each  criminal  possessed  of  gold 
Became,  of  course,  more  daring  and  more  hardened, 
Knowing  beforehand  that  he  should  be  pardoned. 

Our  governor  was  in  fact  an  island  Pope, 
(But  not,  I  "ween,  Pope  Innocent  or  Pius,) 

Selling  indulgences  that  gave  full  scope 
To  him  Avho  fostered  anj  lawless  bias. 

To  sear  his  conscience,  so  that  nought  should  shock  it, 

Bj  purchased  absolutions  in  his  pocket. 

As  he  sat  waiting  for  this  odious  traffic, 

Ready  for  hire  to  pardon  or  condemn. 
Smoking  his  pipe  in  vacancy  seraphic, 

'Twixt  stupid  sottishness  and  native  phlegm. 
An  Englishman,  named  Tate,  made  application 
To  buy  a  pardon  by  anticipation. 

"May't  please  your  Excellency,"  whispered  Tate, 
"I  want  to  horsewhip,  kick,  and  clappei--claw 

A  fellow  that  I  hold  in  special  hate ; 

But  as  the  knave  will  doubtless  take  the  law, 

I  wish  beforehand  to  inquire  the  pittance 

That  I  must  pay  to  purchase  an  acquittance." 

"That,"  said  Van  (iutch,  "on  circumstance  must  rest; 

Does  the  man  merit  such  a  deep  disgrace?" — 
"  Richly;  he  stands  recorded  and  confessed 

The  most  notorious  scoundrel  in  the  place." — 
"  Nay,  then,  I'll  not  be  hard  in  my  condition : 
I  promise,  for  ten  ducats,  full  remission." — 


196  AN   EASY    REMEDY. 

"  Take  them,"  said  Tate,  and  threw  them  on  the  table; 

Then  drew  a  Avhip  prepared  for  the  occasion, 
And  laid  it  on  as  if  he  would  disable 

His  victim  from  all  further  malversation, 
So  thick  a  storm  he  raised  of  kicks  and  lashes, 
With  curses,  sandwich-like,  between  the  slashes. 

Cried  Tate,  "  Your  Excellency  's  the  convicted 
And  flagrant  knave  to  whom  I  made  allusion, 

And  this  unmeasured  scourging  I've  inflicted. 

Because  your  back  claims  lengthened  retribution. 

There  ! — there 's  no  harm  done — all  is  honest  barter : 

/'ve  trimmed  a  scoundrel : — you  have  caught  a  Tartar." 

This  said,  he  bowed  politely  and  departed ; 

Hied  to  the  shore,  embarked  and  hoisted  sail ; 
And  in  some  half  hour's  space  had  fairly  started 

From  St.  Eustatia  with  a  mvouring  gale, 
Leaving  the  writhing  Dutchman  in  a  fluster 
Of  anguish,  rage,  oaths,  bullying,  and  bluster. 


AN  EASY  REMEDY. 


An  honest  tailor,  Avhose  baptismal 

And  patronymic  appellations 
Were  William  Button,  had  a  dismal 

Tendency  to  deep  potations ; 
And  though,  as  he  was  over-mated, 
Like  Jerry  Sneak,  our  snip  was  fated 
In  spite  of  all  his  hungry  heavings, 
To  drink  the  tea  and  coffee  leavings, 
And  eat  cold  mutton-flaps  at  dinner ; 
Yet  sometimes  the  rebellious  sinner, 


AN   EASY    REMEDY.  19T 

Asserting  his  marital  rights, 
Would  on  the  wages-paying  nights, 
Betake  him  to  the  public-house, 
To  smoke,  and  tipple,  and  carouse  ; 

And  as  with  each  new  dram  and  sip  he 

Still  more  and  more  pot-valiant  grew, 
At  last  he  foirly  braved  his  spouse. 

Called  her  a  vixen  and  a  shrew, 
A  Jezebel  and  a  Xantippe  ! 

Returning  homo  one  night,  our  varlet 
Bold  Avith  his  wife-compelling  liquor, 
Rattled  the  knocker  quick  and  quicker, 

When  with  fierce  eye  and  foce  of  scarlet 

His  tender  spouse  appeared,  and  shrilly 

Vented  reproaches  on  her  Willy. 

"  So,  Jackanapes,  you've  come  at  last! 

No  doubt  the  evening  has  been  passed 

In  tippling  purl,  you  drunken  sot, 

IkluUed  ale  and  amber,  hot  and  hot ; 

While  your  poor  wife  is  left  to  slave, 
And  drink  cold  water  from  the  can, 

Cold  water,  ye  remorseless  knave  !" 

"  Cold!"  cried  the  husband,  who  began 

In  turn  to  wrangle  and  to  storm  it — 

"  Cold  !  ye  poor  lazy  slattern ; — cold ! 

Then  why,  ye  good-for  nothing  scold, 

Why  don't  you  warm  it?" 


198  MADAME   TALLEYRAND 


MADAIklE  TALLEYRAND  AND  THE  TRAVELLER. 

The  famous  Talleyrand,  who  knew 

The  secret  of  avoiding  execution, 
And  kept  his  head  upon  his  shoulders,  through 

All  the  convulsions  of  the  Revolution, 
When  heads  were  cropped  by  the  prevailuig  powers, 

Like  cauliflowers. 
Till  they  themselves  endured  the  keen 
Infliction  of  the  Guillotine, 
And  made  way  for  another  faction. 
To  undergo  the  same  reaction : — 
This  Talleyrand  possessed  a  wife, 
Selected  in  his  humbler  life — 

A  rich  bourgeois  of  homely  breeding, 
Neither  bas  bleu,  nor  femme  savcmtc, 
But  rather,  as  I  freely  grant. 

Deficient  in  her  general  reading. 

One  day — 'twas  when  he  stood  elate, 
Napoleon's  minister  of  state — 
Having  invited  to  his  house 

Some  literati  to  confer 

With  a  great  foreign  traveller, 
The  husband  thus  addressed  his  spouse : 

"My  dear,  at  dinner  you  will  meet 
A  foreigner,  a  man  of  note. 
These  authors  like  that  you  should  quote 

From  their  own  works ;  therefore,  to  greet 
Our  guest,  suppose  you  learn  by  rote 
A  sentence  here  and  there,  that  when 
He  prates,  like  other  travelled  men, 


AND    THE    TRAVELLER.  199 

Of  his  exploits  on  land  and  ocean, 
You  may  not  be  completely  gravelled, 

But  have  at  least  some  little  notion 
Of  bow,  and  when,  and  where  he  travelled. 
Take  down  bis  book,  you'll  find  it  yonder; 
Its  dull  contents  you  need  not  ponder ; 

Read  but  the  headings  of  the  chapters. 
Refer  to  them  with  praise  and  wonder, 

And  our  vain  guest  will  be  in  raptures." 

Madame,  resolved  to  play  her  part 
So  as  to  win  the  stranger's  heart. 
Studied  the  book;  but  flir  from  dull, 
She  found  it  quite  delightful ;— full 
Of  marvellous  adventures,  fraught 
With  perilous  escapes,  w^hich  wrought 
So  deep  an  interest  in  her  mind, 
She  really  was  surprised  to  find. 
As  to  the  dinner-room  she  tripped, 
How  rapidly  the  time  had  slipped. 

The  more  to  flatter  and  delight  her. 

When  at  the  board  she  took  her  place, 
The  famous  traveller  and  writer 

Was  seated  by  her  side ; — the  grace 
Was  hardly  said,  or  soup  sent  round, 

"Ere  with  a  shrug  and  a  grimace, 
Eager  to  show  her  lore  profound, 
A  la  Franraise,  she  raised  her  eyes, 
And  hands,  and  voice,  in  ecstacies — 
^' Eh,  Monsieur  Robinson,  mon  Dieii, 
Voild  un  conte  merveilleux ! 
Ah,  pai'  exemple!  it  appals 

The  mind  to  think  of  your  attacks 


200  PROJECTS   AND    COMPANIES. 

On  those  terrific  cannibals — 

Those  horrid  savages  and  blacks, 
Who,  if  they  once  had  gained  the  upper 
Hand,  had  eaten  you  for  supper, 
And  so  prevented  your  proceeding 
With  that  sweet  book  I've  just  been  reading. 

Mais,  quel  bonheur  !  to  liberate 
Poor  Friday  from  the  murderous  crew, 

And  gain  in  your  deserted  state, 

So  lonely  and  disconsolate 
A  servant  and  companion  too!" 

The  visitants  were  all  astounded ; 

The  stranger  stared  aghast,  dumfounded : 

Poor  Talleyrand  blushed  red  as  flame, 

Till  having  catechised  the  dame, 

The  mystery  was  quickly  cleared ; 

The  simple  woman  it  appeared, 

Instead  of  the  intended  book 

In  which  she  had  been  urged  to  look, 

From  the  same  shelf  contrived  to  take 

Robinson  Crusoe  by  mistake  ! 


PROJECTS  AND  COMPANIES. 

"  Some  were  condensing  air  into  a  dry  tangible  substance  by  extracting  th» 
nitre,  and  letting  the  aqueous  or  fluid  particles  percolate ;  others  softening  marbU 
for  pillows  and  pincushions ;  others  petrifying  the  hoofs  of  a  living  horse  to  pre- 
serve them  from  foundering." — Gulliver's  Travels. 

A  Nation's  wealth  that  overflows. 
Will  sometimes  in  its  course  disclose 

Fantastical  contortions : 
'Tis  like  the  rising  of  the  Nile, 
Which  fats  the  soil,  but  breeds  the  while 

Stransce  monsters  and  abortions. 


mOJECTS  AND    COMPANIES. 

Better  our  superflux  to  waste 

On  peaceful  schemes,  howe'er  misplaced, 

Than  war  and  its  abuses ; 
But  bettor  still  if  he  could  guide 
And  limit  the  Pactolian  tide, 

To  salutary  uses. 

Our  sires,  poor  unambitious  folks  ! 
Had  but  an  individual  hoax, 

A  single  South-sea  bubble  : 
Each  province  our  delusion  shares, 
From  Poyais  down  to  Buenos- Ayres — 

To  count  them  is  a  trouble. 

The  gold  that 's  sent  out  ready  made 
To  the  new  world,  must  be  repaid 

By  help  of  Watt  and  Boulton, 
Who  from  their  mines,  by  aid  of  pumps. 
Will  raise  up  ore,  and  lumps,  and  dumps, 

Whence  sovereigns  may  be  molten  ! 

Others,  not  roaming  quite  so  far, 
In  stocks  and  bonds  Peninsular, 

Find  all  their  treasure  vanish ; 
Leaving  a  warning  to  the  rash. 
That  the  best  way  to  keep  their  cash, 

Is  not  to  touch  the  Spanish. 

Gilded  by  Eldorado  dreams, 

No  wonder  if  our  foreign  schemes 

Assume  a  tint  romantic ; 
But  even  at  home,  beneath  our  eyes, 
What  ignes  fatui  arise, 

Extravagant  and  antic ! 


201 


202  PROJECTS   AND    COMPANIES. 

Bridges  of  iron,  stone,  and  wood, 
Not  onlj,  Thames,  bestride  thy  flood, 

As  if  thou  wert  a  runnel ; 
But  terraces  must  clog  thy  shore, 
While  underneath  thy  bed  -we  bore 

A  subterranean  tunnel. 

Now  bursts  a  fiercer  mania — all 
From  every  shire,  the  great,  the  small, 

For  Railroad  shares  are  scrambling ; 
Peers,  paupers,  countesses,  their  maids, 
With  equal  ardour  ply  the  trades 

Of  jobbing,  scheming,  gambling. 

Decoyed  by  projects  wild  and  rash. 
Some  find  their  rail-devoted  cash 

Is  lost  beyond  retrieval ; 
Others,  who  profitably  sold. 
Will  tell  you  that  the  age  of  gold 

And  iron  are  coeval. 

With  each  new  moon  new  bubbles  rise, 
Each,  as  it  flits  before  our  eyes. 

Its  predecessor  smashing ; 
All  at  their  rivals  freely  throw 
Their  dirt,  to  which  we  doubtless  owe 

The  Company  for  washing. 

These  are  but  weeds,  the  rich  manure 
Of  overflowing  wealth  is  sure 

To  generate  the  thistle  : — 
They  who  would  learn  its  nobler  use. 
May  Pope's  majestic  luies  peruse 

That  close  his  Fourth  Epistle. 


ELEGY. 


ELEGY. 

TO  THE  MEMOBT  OP   MISS   EMILT  KAY,  COUSIN   TO  MISS  ELLEN   GEE,  OF  KEW,  WHO 
DIED  LATELY  AT  EWELL,   AND  WAS   BITEIED  IN  ESSEX. 

"  They  fool  me  to  the  top  of  my  bcut."— Shakspeaee. 

Sad  nymphs  of  U  L,  U  have  much  to  cry  for, 
Sweet  M  L  E  K  U  never  more  shall  C  ! 

O  S  X  maids !  come  hither  and  D,  o, 
With  tearful  I,  this  i\I  T  L  E  Gr. 

Without  X  S  she  did  X  L  alway, 

Ah  me !  it  truly  vexes  1  2  C 
How  soon  so  D  R  a  creature  may  D  K, 

And  only  leave  behind  X  U  V  E  ! 

Whate'er  1  0  to  do  she  did  discharge, 
So  that  an  N  M  E  it  might  N  D  R : 

Then  why  an  S  A  write  ? — then  why  ]N 
Or  with  my  briny  tears  B  D  U  her  BR? 

When  her  Piano-40  she  did  press. 

Such  heavenly  sounds  did  M  N  8,  that  she 

Knowing  her  Q,  soon  1  U  2  confess 
Her  X  L  N  C  in  an  X  T  C. 

Her  hair  was  soft  as  silk,  not  Y  R  E, 
It  gave  no  Q,  nor  yet  2  P  to  view : 

She  was  not  handsome ;  shall  I  tell  U  Y  ? 
U  R  2  know  her  I  was  all  S  Q. 

L  8  she  was,  and  prattling  like  a  J ; 

How  little,  M  L  E  !  did  you  4  C, 
The  grave  should  soon  M  U  U,  cold  as  clay, 

And  you  should  cease  to  be  an  N  T  T  ! 


204  PITT'S   BON-MOT. 

AYhile  taking  T  at  Q  with  L  N  G, 
The  M  T  grate  she  rose  to  put  a  : 

Her  clothes  caught  fire — no  1  again  shall  see 
Poor  M  L  E ;  who  now  is  dead  as  Solon. 

0  L  N  G !  in  vain  you  set  at  0 

G  R  and  reproach  for  suffering  her  2  B 

Thus  sacrificed ;  to  J  L  U  should  be  brought, 
Or  burnt  U  0  2  B  in  F  E  G. 

Sweet  M  L  E  K  into  S  X  they  bore, 
Taking  good  care  the  monument  2  Y  10, 

And  as  her  tomb  was  much  2  low  B  4, 

They  lately  brought  fresh  bricks  the  walls  to  i  (J 
(heighten.) 


PITT'S   BON-MOT. 


Though  William  Pitt  (nick-named  the  Tory 
In  Morris's  facetious  story,) 

Retains  the  honours  of  his  name 

As  a  Debates-man, 
Who  in  the  House  of  Commons,  "  ore 
Rotiindo/^  cried  up  England's  glory, 

Yet  as  a  statesman, 
Or  as  a  financier,  his  fame 
May  be  compared  to  his  own  sinking  fund. 
Which,  if  not  quite  extinct,  is  moribund. 

Seeing  this  heaven-born  minister's  renown 

In  his  political  capacity, 
Thus  tumbling  down, 

An  instance  of  his  smart  dicacity, 


PITT'S   BON-MOT.  205 

Ought  injustice  to  be  stated, 

In  order  that  the  reader  may  bestow 
Due  praise  on  the  defunct  for  a  bon-mot^ 

The  only  one  he  ever  perpetrated. 

When  the  French  threatened  in  flat-bottomed  boats 

To  come  and  cut  our  throats, 
Pitt — then  Lord  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports — held 

A  meeting  in  the  town  of  Dover, 

To  settle,  should  the  French  come  over, 
How  they  might  best  and  soonest  be  rcpell'd ; 

Which  said  assemblage,  being  fierce  and  loyal, 
Declared  that  England  might  discard  her  fears, 

For  they  themselves  would  promise  to  destroy  all 
The  French,,  if  they  might  form  a  corps,  the  Mayor 
To  be  commander,  and  the  Avhole  to  bear 
The  name  of  Royal  Dover  Volunteers. 

The  Premier,  when  the  cheering  ceased. 

Smiled,  for  he  knew  the  dictum  true, 
That  greatest  boasters  do  the  least. 
And  whispered  to  himself — "The  Dover  traders 

Are  most  insufferable  gasconaders  ; 

If  any  folks  deserve  an  innuendo, 
By  way  of  a  rebuke,  I'm  sure  these  men  do." 

However  no  remark  was  made, 
Until  the  secretary  reading  o'er 
The  rules  and  regulations  of  the  corps, 

Broke  off,  and  to  the  chairman  said, 

"  Sir,  I  respectfully  submit 

That  it  were  well  on  this  occasion, 
Among  our  standing  rules  and  laws, 
To  insert  the  customary  clause. 
Not  to  serve  out  of  Emjland.'''' — "  Yes,"  said  Pitt, 

"  Except  in  case  of  an  invasion  /' 


206  HOBBS  AND   DOBBS. 


HOBBS  AND  DOBBS. 

Adrian. — "Your  jest  is  somewhat  of  the  oldest,  Master  Giles." 
Giles. — "  Hush !  do  you  tliink  I  would  offer  a  new  joke,  any  more  than  new 
wine,  to  your  Worship?" — The  Unknown. 

Love  in  a  village,  where  the  parties  revel 
In  all  the  neighbourly  civility 
Of  cheerful,  social  amiability, 

Is  vastly  pleasant ; 
But  hatred  in  a  village  is  the  devil ! 

Because  each  peasant 
Is  ever  meeting  in  that  narrow  circle. 
The  very  man  on  whom  he  longs  to  work  ill. 
How  sad  the  pity  that  our  beau  ideal 

Is  never  real ; — 
That  envy,  hatred,  jealousy,  and  malice, 

Should  hold  their  chalice 
Up  to  the  lips  of  rustics,  who  were  meant 
By  Nature  to  be  innocent. 
And  harmless  as  the  household  dove, 

That  type  of  love  ! 

After  this  pretty  bit  of  flummery, 

Or  moral  sentimental  proem, 

(An  apt  exordium  to  my  poem,) 
I  must  be  quick,  concise,  and  summary, 
And  without  any  more  preparative, 

Commence  my  narrative. 

At  Oakley,  in  the  Western  Riding 

Of  Yorkshire,  were  two  men  residing, 

Named  Hobbs  and  Dobbs,  whose  constant  quarrels, 

Springing  from  rivalry  in  trade, 

A  sort  of  village  warfare  made, 
Which  sadly  spoilt  the  people's  morals, 


IIOBBS   AND    DOBBS.  207 

Splitting  them  into  furious  factions; 

Some  warmly  advocating  Ilobbs, 
"While  others,  both  by  words  and  actions, 

Supported  Dobbs. 
And  yet  these  foolish  fellows  ought 

In  their  two  leaders  to  have  found 
Men  of  strong  understanding,  taught 

"With  friendly  stitches, 
To  patch  up,  not  occasion  breaches. 

And  mend  the  soles  of  all  the  rustics  round, 
For  they  were  both  shoemakers,  and  their  labours 

Should  have  been  circumscribed  to  putting 
Their  friends  and  customers,  and  neighbours, 

On  a  good  footing. 

They  lived,  unfortunately,  vis-a-vis, 

And  soon  began  the  work  of  emulation. 
By  flaming  shopboards,  where  in  gilt 
And  lackered  lustre,  you  might  see 
The  symbols  of  their  occupation, 
Much  paint  in  blue  and  crimson  being  spilt. 
That  each  might  be  more  splendid  than  the  other. 
And  win  all  custom  from  his  baffled  brother. 

Hobbs,  who  had  somehoAV  given  handle 
For  undeserved  reproach  and  scandal. 

When  he  new-dizened  out  his  board, 
"Wrote  at  its  foot  this  Latin  scrap — 

'■^ Mens  conscia  recti,' ^  which  he  took 

From  some  heraldic  motto-book. 
Meaning  thereby  to  have  a  slap 

At  his  maligners  and  afford 
Proof  that  his  path  lie  still  pursued, 
Stronor  in  a  conscious  rectitude. 


208  MONSIEUR   LE    BRUN. 

This  was  a  source  of  envious  dolour 

To  Dobbs,  who,  in  his  first  confusion, 
Knowing  his  rival  was  no  scholar, 

Deduced  the  natural  conclusion 
That  "  conscia  rectV^  doubtless  meant 

Some  article  of  trade,  perchance. 

Some  fashion  just  arrived  from  France, 

And  being  resolutely  bent 
His  hated  rival  to  eclipse. 
He  sent  forthwith  for  Mr.  Cripps, 
Painter  and  glazier, 

When  thus  ejaculated  Dobbs — 
"  Paint  me  a  still  more  flaming  board, 

Of  green,  and  gold,  and  azure ; 
What !  do  you  think  I  can't  afford 

To  pay  for  it  as  well  as  Hobbs  ? 
Be  these  French  kickshaws  wdiat  they  will, 
I  am  resolved  to  beat  him  still, 

To  which  effect  I 
Desire  you'll  print  in  gold  at  bottom, 
(That  folks  may  fancy  I  have  got  'em,) 

Men's  AND  women's  conscia  rectiP^ 


MONSIEUR  LE  BRUN. 

Monsieur  le  Brun  (who  must  not  be  confused 
With  the  great  painter)  jointly  cultivated 

Apollo's  laurel  and  the  grape  of  Bacchus, 
And  into  mediocre  verse  translated. 

Or  rather,  as  the  French  would  say,  traduced 
The  odes  of  Flaccus. 


MONSIEUR   LE   BRUN.  209 

The  work,  I  must  confess,  was  badly  done, 

For  poor  Le  Brun, 
Still  scribbling,  and  unable  still  to  win 

A  living  for  himself  and  wife. 
Was  like  a  rope-maker,  condemned  to  spin 

Long  lines,  yet  still  go  backward  all  his  life. 

Le  Brun  asserted  that  an  author  loses 

By  quaffing  with  the  water-drinking  Muses, 

Wherefore  he  held  in  small  account 
Castalia's  fount, 

And  not  a  solitary  sip  he 

Ever  quaffed  from  Aganippe, 
Maintaining  that  champagne  and  other  wine, 

With,  now  and  then,  a  draught  of  liquor, 

Produced  an  inspiration  quicker. 
As  well  as  more  delightful  and  divine. — 
If  to  his  cups  his  couplets  he  had  suited. 

They  must  have  sparkled— and  'tis  strange  to  me, 
That  want  of  life  should  ever  be  imputed 

To  poetry  inspired  by  eau-de-vie. 

But  so  it  was — his  poems,  every  one, 
Were  like  a  flintless  gun, 

AYhich  won't  go  off  for  want  of  fire ; 
And  poor  Le  Brun  who  took  to  deeper  drinking 
Listead  of  thinking, 

Sunk  daily  deeper  in  oblivion's  mire. 
While  swallowing  compound  spirits,  still  the  faster 

He  lost  his  own,  till  he  became  a  prey 
To  hyi^ochondria ;  and  one  disaster 

Another  following,  his  health  gave  way. 
His  stomach,  it  was  said,  had  lost  its  coat, 


210  MONSIEUR    LE    BRUN. 

Or  thrown  it  off,  perhaps,  from  being  hot, 
For  his  old  trick  he  never  had  forgot, 
Of  pouring  ardent  spirits  down  his  throat ; 
Which  daily  system  of  potation 

Most  deleterious, 
Brought  fever  first,  then  inflammation, 
"When  his  poor  wife  so  much  his  aspect  shocked  her, 
Called  in  the  doctor, 

And  now  the  case  grew  serious. 

Bolus,  a  man  of  fees,  not  feeling. 
Finding  his  purse  was  low,  though  high  his  fever, 

Bolted,  but  sent  a  priest,  who,  kneeling. 
Thus  comforted  the  bibulous  believer : — 
"  My  son,  'tis  clear  you  have  not  long  to  live. 

So  you  must  use  this  unction, 

Confess  your  sins  with  due  compunction, 
And  freely  all  your  enemies  forgive — 

Bestowing  on  them,  if  they  're  nigh, 

The  kiss  of  peace  before  you  die !" 

"  Kiss  what  I  hated  most — my  deadliest  foes ! 
Surely,  good  father,  you  impose 

A  penance  too  revolting  to  be  just, 
'Tis  ten  times  worse  than  fasts,  hair  shirts,  and  whips; 

However,  if  I  must,  I  must ; 
So  put  a  glass  of  water  to  my  lips !" 


ST.    GEORGE'S    PEMITENTIARY.  211 


ST.  GEORGE'S   PENITENTIARY. 

The  learned  and  facetious  Dr.  Airy 

Preached,  'totlier  day,  a  sermon  so  pathetic, 
For  the  St.  George's  Penitentiary, 

That  it  seemed  just  like  giving  an  emetic 
To  every  purse  of  Christian  bowels : 

Folks  sobbed  and  blubbered 
So  flist  that  hankerchiefs  were  turned  to  towels ; 

And  the  last  tear  seemed  squeezed  from  out  its  cup- 
board. 
The  Doctor  smiled  (within  his  sleeve) 

At  these  salt  tributes  to  his  oratory, 
Sure  that  the  Institution  would  receive 

A  sum  redounding  to  his  proper  glory, 

From  the  soul-melted  auditory. 

The  sermon  o'er,  he  bent  his  keen 

Ear  to  the  tinklings  of  the  plate  ; — 

Alas  they  came  with  pause  deliberate 
'Twixt  each  donation, 
"Like  angel  visits,  few  and  far  between," 
(I  like  a  new  quotation,) 

But,  as  he  caught  the  sounds,  he  thought 
Each  had  a  golden  echo,  which  in  fairness 
Made  full  atonement  for  its  rareness. 

'•Ay,  ay,"  soliloquized  the  preacher, 
'•  I  told  them  charity  atoned 
For  multitudes  of  sins ; — they  've  owned 

For  once  the  wisdom  of  their  teacher. 
And,  for  their  many  crimes  untold, 
Are  doing  penance  with  their  gold." 


212  ST.  George's  penitentiary. 

With  this  auriferous  impression, 

Proud  and  elate, 

He  move  towards  the  plate ; 
But  ah  !  how  changed  was  his  expression. 
When,  'stead  of  the  expected  prize, 
Nothing  hut  shillings  met  his  eyes, 
And  those,  alas !  too  few  in  number 

Each  other  to  encumber. 
"Ah!"  cried  the  parson — "addle-pated 
Dolts  and  dunces  !  when  I  stated, 
'  Love  of  our  species  is  the  just 
Measure  of  charity,  they  must 
Have  understood  the  phrase  to  be, 

Love  of  our  specie.' 
Nothing  but  shillings,  shillings  still ! 

A  strange  vagary ! 
Now  on  my  credit,  if  I  had  my  will, 
Their  Institution's  title  I  would  vary, 
Into  the  Twelve-VY.^^Y-tentiary.''^ 
Doctor  !  'tis  my  opinion  humble, 
You  had  not  any  right  to  grumble, 
For  he  who  in  this  penny  age  can  touch 
A  shilling,  gets  tvrelve  times  as  much 
As  other  folks  ; — I  state  no  hoax, 
But  simple  fact,  devoid  of  jokes, 
Or  amphibological  equivoques ; 
Yes,  siQce  the  penny  banner  was  unfurled, 
In  this  two-halfpenny  four-farthing  world, 
Have  we  not  thousands  who  are  willing 

To  place  unlimited  reliance, 

For  learning,  news,  and  science, 
Upon  the  twelfth  part  of  a  shilling? 
Have  we  not  Penny  Cyclopedias, 

Penny  Magazines  and  books. 


ST.    GEORGE'S   PENITENTIARY.  213 

Penny  Tracts,  less  good  than  tedious, 
For  penitents  of  rueful  looks, 

And  penny  classics  that  give  scope 

To  boys  at  penny  schools,  and  misses, 
To  sympathize  with  poor  Ulysses 

And  his  beloved  Penny-lope? 

With  such  economy, 
Where  every  cottage  is  a  college. 
What  AYonder,  in  the  march  of  knowledge, 

That  ploughboys  understand  astronomy  ? 
Cries  Ilodge— "How  comes  it  that  the  sun, 

Who  nightly  seeks  the  western  shore, 
Rises,  as  sure  as  any  gun, 

Next  morning  where  he  was  afore?" 
"  Spoony  I"  replies  a  learned  wight, 

"Your  ignorance  is  truly  risible; 
He  always  travels  back  at  night, 

And  that's  the  reason  he'  s  in?«isible." 

It  was  a  penny  Latinist,  who  said, 
In  chaos  there  had  been  a  battle 
Before  the  days  of  men  and  cattle. 

Though  not  set  down  in  Holy  Writ, 
Because  in  Ovid  he  had  read 

That  was  the  time  when  nihil  fit. 
Such  tales,  (I  hope  that  none  have  quizzed  'em,) 

Evince  the  march  of  penny  wisdom. 

And  might  be  told  ad  infinitum, 
Had  we  just  now  the  time  to  write  'em. 


214  DIAMOND    CUT    DIAMOND^ 

DIAMOND   CUT   DIAMOND. 

A  KECENT  OCCUERENCE, 

A  FIRM  there  is,  of  civic  fame, 

At  all  events  of  notoriety, 
(Excuse  my  mentioning  its  name,) 

Which  crams  the  public  to  satiety, 
With  rhyming  puffs  by  shopmen  bards, 
And  huge  conspicuous  placards, 
Slung  on  the  backs  of  men  and  boys. 

And  hobble-de-hoys, 
Plying  all  day  their  devious  courses ; 

Or  stuck  on  the  tall  vans  that  flare 

Through  every  crowded  thoroughfare, 
To  cozen  asses  and  to  frighten  horses. 

This  firm's  emporium  or  bazaar, 
Near  Aldgate  pump,  is  known  afar 
By  catchpenny  devices  manifold, 
By  panes  of  glass  worth  many  guineas. 
And  all  that  may  attract  the  ninnies 
Who  think  they're  buying  cheap,  and  find  they're  sold. 

Two  clowns,  one  day,  before  the  shop, 
In  rustic  frocks  and  spatterdashes, 
Besmirched  with  stercoraceous  splashes, 
Came  to  a  stop ; 

Not  to  admire  the  flash  habiliments, 

Which  a  month's  wear  would  turn  to  filaments; 
Not  to  indulge  in  talk  domestic, 

But  to  decide  by  imprecations, 

And  interchange  of  objurgations. 
Some  unadjusted  feud  agrestic. 


DIAMOND    CUT   DIAMOND,  215 

Their  flashing  cjcs  and  gestures  furious 
Soon  showed  that  words,  howe'er  injurious, 
Would  not  interpret  Avhat  their  rage  meant. 
So  tliej  began  a  fist  engagement ; 
And,  in  the  very  first  attack, 
One  of  the  rustics,  reeling  back, 

Against  the  -window  fell  slaji  dash. 

Zooks  !  what  a  crash  ! 
'Twas  obvious  that  the  largest  pane 
(If  we  may  speak  in  Yankee  strain) 

"Was  sent  to  everlasting  smash. 

Away  the  first  aggressor  hurried, 

And  presently  was  lost  to  sight ; 
Out  rushed  four  shopmen,  red  and  flurried. 

Who  seized  the  window-breaking  wight. 

Aghast  and  trembling  with  affright, 
Dragged  him  into  their  shop  or  trap,  and 
Told  their  master  what  had  happened. 
"  It  cost  ten  pounds  F'  the  latter  roared; 

"  Ten  pounds,  and  you  must  pay  them  down, 
Before  your  liberty  "s  restored. 

D'  ye  hear?  hast  got  the  money,  clown?"' 

'•  Ten  pounds !"  cried  Hodge,  in  blank  dismay ; 
"  Lord  love  you,  I  can  never  pay. 
I've  got  ten  shillings  and  some  pence ; 

("Tis  hard  to  make  me  such  a  loser,) 
But  if  they'll  cover  the  offence. 

Take  'em  and  let  me  go,  now  do,  sir." 
"  Blockhead  !   will  such  a  mite  atone  ? 

You  must  make  good  the  Avhole  disaster." 
"I've  nothing  else,  sir,  of  my  own; 

What  more  I've  got  belongs  to  master." 


216  DIAMOND    CUT   DIAMOXD. 

"  So  you  have  money  then  ?  how  much  ?" 
"  Why,  sir,  he  sent  me  on  a  job, 

To  cash  a  check  for  fifty  pound ; 
'Tis  done,  the  note  is  in  my  fob, 

Wrapped  in  a  paper,  safe  and  sound ; 
But  that,  you  know,  I  mustn't  touch; 
You  would  n't  bring  me  to  disgrace, 
Wi'  loss  o'  character  and  place  ; 
So  don't  ye  ax  me,  sir,  pray  don't; 
Touch  it  I  mustn't,  and  I  won't." 
"Your  master,  clown,  is  answerable 

For  your  misdeeds,  whate'er  they  be ; 
Down  with  the  note  upon  the  table, 

And  we  '11  give  change  and  set  you  free ; 
If  not,  prepare  to  go  to  prison," 

"  Dang  it!"  cried  Hodge,  with  face  of  woe, 

"  What  can  I  do,  sir,  when  you  know 
The  money  isn't  mine,  but  his'n?" 
"  Stuff!"  quoth  the  magnate  of  the  shop; 

"  Quick  !  quick!  let  the  police  be  called. 
And  send  him  straight  to  jail."     "  Stop  !  stop !' 

Ejaculated  Hodge,  appalled, 
And  like  a  leaf  of  aspen  shaking, 
Such  was  his  pitiable  taking, 
"Master,  if  I  am  missed,  will  say 
I've  robbed  him,  and  have  run  away. 
It  can't  be  helped — what  must  be,  must." 

So  saying  he  fished  up  the  note, 
From  the  deep  fob  in  which  'twas  thrust. 

And  twisted  like  a  papillote, 
Secured  the  change,  and  then  departed. 
Half  frightened  and  half  broken  hearted, 
Moaning  and  muttering,  "  I  fegs  ! 


DIAMOND    CUT    DIAMOND.  217 

How  shall  I  ever  tell  my  master 
About  this  terrible  disaster  ? 
I'm  ruined,  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs." 

Our  cits,  though  chuckling  with  intense 
Enjoyment  at  the  clown's  cxpenst, 

Had  little  cause  for  mirth,  if  any. 
For  lo  !  their  banker's  clerk  appears 
Next  day,  and  whispers  in  their  eais, 

"  This  fifty 's  forged — not  worth  a  penny !" 

Such  was  the  fact — our  firm  had  lost, 
Besides  the  broken  window's  cost, 
Pounds  forty  at  a  sincrle  throw: 
What  had  they  in  return  to  show 
For  such  subtraction  from  their  till  ? 
A  piece  of  paper,  value — nil ! 

Meanwhile  the  fighting  clowns,  whose  roguery 
(They  were  colleagues)  the  plot  had  planned. 
By  which  the  tradesmen  were  trepanned, 
Changed  their  smock-frocks  for  stylish  toggery. 
To  Margate  steamed  to  take  their  pleasure. 
And  spent  their  forty  pounds  at  leisure. 
10 


POETICAL    WORKS 


JAMES    SMITH. 


LONDON    LYRICS. 


CHRISTMAS  OUT  OF  TOWN. 

For  many  a  winter  in  Billiter-lane 

My  wife,  Mrs.  Brown,  was  not  heard  to  complain  ; 

At  Christmas  the  family  met  there  to  dine 

On  beef  and  plum-pudding,  and  turkey  and  chine. 

Our  bark  has  now  taken  a  contrary  heel, 

My  wife  has  found  out  that  the  sea  is  genteel. 

To  Brighton  we  duly  go  scampering  down. 

For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

Our  register-stoves,  and  our  crimson-baized  doors, 
Our  weather-proof  walls,  and  our  carpeted  floors. 
Our  casements  well  fitted  to  stem  the  North  wind, 
Our  arm-chair  and  sofa,  are  all  left  behind. 
We  lodge  on  the  Steine,  in  a  bow-window' d  box, 
That  beckons  up-stairs  every  Zephyr  that  knocks ; 
The  sun  hides  his  head,  and  the  elements  frown — 
But  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

In  Billiter-lane,  at  this  mirth-moving  time, 

The  lamplighter  brought  us  his  annual  rhyme, 

The  tricks  of  Grimaldi  were  sure  to  be  seen. 

We  carved  a  twelfth-cake,  and  we  drew  king  and  queen 

These  pastimes  gave  oil  to  Time's  roundabout  wheel, 

Before  we  began  to  be  growing  genteel : 

'Twas  all  very  well  for  a  cockney  or  clown. 

But  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 


222  LONDON   LYRICS. 

At  Brighton  I'm  stuck  up  in  Donaldson's  shop, 
Or  walk  upon  bricks  till  I'm  ready  to  drop; 
Throw  stones  at  an  anchor,  look  out  for  a  skiflf, 
Or  view  the  Chain-pier  from  the  top  of  the  cliff; 
Till  winds  from  all  quarters  oblige  me  to  halt, 
With  an  eye  full  of  sand  and  a  mouth  full  of  salt. 
Yet  still  I  am  suffering  with  folks  of  renown, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

In  gallop  the  winds,  at  the  full  of  the  moon. 
And  puff  up  my  carpet  like  Sadler's  balloon ; 
My  drawing-room  rug  is  besprinkled  with  soot. 
And  there  is  not  a  lock  in  the  house  that  will  shut. 
At  Mahomet's  steam-bath  I  lean  on  my  cane. 
And  murmur  in  secret — "  Oh,  Billiter-lane !" 
But  would  not  express  what  I  think  for  a  crown, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

The  Duke  and  the  Earl  are  no  cronies  of  mine. 
His  Majesty  never  invites  me  to  dine  ; 
The  Marquess  won't  speak,  when  we  meet  on  the  pier. 
Which  makes  me  suspect  that  I'm  nobody  here. 
If  that  be  the  case,  why  then  welcome  again 
Twelfth-cake  and  snap-dragon  in  Billiter-lane. 
Next  winter  I'll  prove  to  my  dear  Mrs.  Brown, 
That  Nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 


ST.  JAMES'S  PARK. 


'TwAS  June,  and  many  a  gossip  wench, 
Child-freighted,  trod  the  central  Mall ; 

I  gained  a  white  unpeopled  bench, 
And  gazed  upon  the  long  Canal. 


ST.    JAMES'S    PARK.  223 

Beside  me,  soon,  in  motley  talk, 

Boys,  nursemaids  sat,  a  varying  race ; 

At  length  two  females  crossed  the  walk. 
And  occupied  the  vacant  space. 

In  years  they  seem'd  some  forty-four, 

Of  dwarfish  stature,  vulgar  mien ; 
A  bonnet  of  black  silk  each  wore, 

And  each  a  gown  of  bombazine : 
And,  while  in  loud  and  careless  tones 

They  dwelt  upon  their  own  concerns, 
Ere  long  I  learned  that  Mrs.  Jones 

Was  one,  and  one  was  Mrs.  Burns. 

They  talked  of  little  Jane  and  John, 

And  hoped  they'd  come  before  'twas  dark, 
Then  wondered  why,  with  pattens  on. 

One  might  not  walk  across  the  Park  : 
They  called  it  far  to  Camden-town, 

Yet  hoped  to  reach  it  by-and-bye ; 
And  thought  it  strange,  smce  flour  was  down, 

That  bread  should  still  continue  high. 

They  said,  last  Monday's  heavy  gales 

Had  done  a  monstrous  deal  of  ill ; 
Then  tried  to  count  the  iron  rails 

That  wound  up  Constitution  hill : 
This  'larum  sedulous  to  shun, 

I  donn'd  my  gloves,  to  march  away, 
When,  as  I  gazed  upon  the  one, 

"  Good  Heavens  !"  I  cried,  "  'tis  Nancy  Gray." 

'Twas  Nancy,  whom  I  led  along 
The  whitened  and  elastic  floor, 


224  LONDON    LYRICS. 

Amid  mirth's  merry  pancing  throng, 
Just  two-and-twentj  years  before. 

Though  sadly  alter' d,  I  knew  her, 

While  she,  'twas  obvious,  knew  me  not; 

But  mildly  said,  "  Good  evening,  sir," 
And  with  her  comrade  left  the  spot. 

"Is  this,"  I  cried,  in  grief  profound, 

"The  fair,  with  whom,  eclipsing  all, 
I  traversed  E,anelagh's  bright  round, 

Or  trod  the  mazes  of  Vauxhall  ? 
And  is  this  all  that  Time  can  do? 

Has  Nature  nothing  else  in  store? 
Is  this,  of  lovely  twenty-two. 

All  that  remains  at  forty-four  ? 

"  Could  I  to  such  a  helpmate  cling? 

Were  such  a  wedded  dowdy  mine, 
On  yonder  lamp-post  would  I  swing, 

Or  plunge  in  yonder  Serpentine  !" 
I  left  the  Park  with  eyes  askance. 

But,  ere  I  entered  Cleveland-row, 
Rude  Reason  thus  threw  in  her  lance, 

And  dealt  self-love  a  mortal  blow. 

"  Time,  at  whose  touch  all  mortals  bow, 

From  either  sex  his  prey  secures, 
His  scythe,  while  wounding  Nancy's  brow. 

Can  scarce  have  smoothly  swept  o'er  yours; 
By  her  you  plainly  were  not  known ; 

Then,  while  you  mourn  the  alter'd  hue 
Of  Nancy's  face,  suspect  your  own 

May  be  a  little  altered  too." 


THE  UPAS  IN  MARYBONE  LANE.       225 


THE  UPAS  IN  MARYBONE  LANE, 

A  TREE  grew  in  Java,  whose  pestilent  rind 
A  venom  distilled  of  the  deadliest  kind ; 
The  Dutch  sent  their  felons  its  juices  to  draw, 
And  who  returned  safe,  pleaded  pardon  by  law. 

Face-muffled  the  culprits  crept  into  the  vale, 
Advancing  from  windward  to  'scape  the  death-gale; 
How  few  the  reward  of  their  victory  earned  ! 
For  ninety-nine  perished  for  one  who  returned. 

Britannia  this  Upas-tree  bought  of  Mynheer, 
Removed  it  through  Holland  and  planted  it  here ; 
'Tis  now  a  stock  plant,  of  the  genus  Wolf's  bane. 
And  one  of  them  blossoms  in  Marybone  lane. 

The  house  that  surrounds  it  stands  first  in  a  row. 
The  doors,  at  right  angles,  swing  open  below ; 
And  the  children  of  misery  daily  steal  in, 
And  the  poison  they  draw  we  denominate  Gi7i. 

There  enter  the  prude,  and  the  reprobate  boy, 
The  mother  of  grief,  and  the  daughter  of  joy, 
The  serving-maid  slim,  and  the  serving-man  stout, 
They  quickly  steal  in,  and  they  slowly  reel  out. 

Surcharged  with  the  venom,  some  walk  forth  erect, 
Apparently  baffling  its  deadly  eifect ; 
But,  sooner  or  later,  the  reckoning  arrives. 
And  ninety-nine  perish  for  one  who  survives. 
10* 


226  LONDON   LYRICS. 

They  cautious  advance,  Avith  slouched  bonnet  and  hat. 
They  enter  at  this  door,  they  go  out  at  that ; 
Some  bear  off  their  burden  with  riotous  glee. 
But  most  sink,  in  sleep,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Tax,  Chancellor  Van,  the  Batavian  to  thwart, 
This  compound  of  crime,  at  a  sovereign  a  quart ; 
Let  ghi  fetch,  per  bottle,  the  price  of  Champagne, 
And  hew  down  the  Upas  in  Marybone-lane. 


STAGE  WEDLOCK. 

Farren,  Thalia's  dear  delight, 
Can  I  forget  that  fatal  night 

Of  grief,  unstained  by  fiction, 
(Even  now  the  recollection  damps) 
When  Wroughton  led  thee  to  the  lamps 

In  graceful  valediction  ? 

This  Derby  prize  by  Hymen  won, 
Again  the  God  made  bold  to  run 

Beneath  Thalia's  steerage ; 
Sent  forth  a  second  Earl  to  woo, 
And  captivating  Brunton  too, 

Exalted  to  the  peerage. 

Awhile  no  actress  sought  his  shrine ; 
When  lovely  Searle,  in  Columbine, 

Each  heart  held  "cabined,  cribbed  in:" 
Her  dark-blue  eye,  and  tresses  loose, 
Made  the  whole  town  dub  Mother  Goose 

Chef-d^ ceuvre  of  Tom  Dibdin. 


STAGE   AYEDLOCK.  227 

"Hail,  feathered  Conjuror!"  I  cried, 
"September's  dish.  Saint  Michael's  pride, 

Tlieatric  gold  collector : 
I  pledge  thee,  bird,  in  Circe's  cup  !" — 
But  Heathcote,  ring  in  hand,  ripped  up 

The  Capitols  protector. 

Thrice  vanquished  thus,  on  Thespian  soil, 
Heart-^vhole  awhile,  from  Cupid's  toil 

I  caught  a  fleeting  furlough ; 
Gay's  Newgate  Opera  charmed  me  then, 
But  Polly  sang  her  requiem  when 

Fair  Bolton  changed  to  Thurlow. 

These  wounds  some  substitute  might  heal ; 
But  what  bold  mortal  bade  O'Neil 

Renounce  her  tragic  station  ? 
Taste,  talent,  beauty  to  trepan — 
By  Heaven,  I  wonder  how  the  man 

Escaped  assassination ! 

I  felt  half  bent  to  w^ng  my  way 
With  Werter,  on  whose  table  lay 

Emilia  Galoti : 
Stunned,  like  a  skater  by  a  fall, 
I  saw  with  unconcern  Hughes  Ball 

Elope  with  Mercandotti. 

'Tis  thus  that  prowling  round  Love's  fold, 
Hymen,  by  sufferance  made  bold, 

(Too  bold  for  one  of  his  age,) 
Presumes  behind  the  scenes  to  go, 
Where  only  Cupid  used  to  show 

His  mythologic  visage. 


228  LONDON   LYRICS. 

Would  these  bold  suitors  wield  the  fork, 
And  dip,  as  sailors  dip  for  pork, 

Or  urchins  at  a  barrow, 
First  come,  first  take,  one  would  not  care ; 
But  pick  and  choose  was  never  fair 

At  Eton  or  at  Harrow. 

Gain  we  no  safeguard  from  the  laws? 
Contains  the  Marriage  Act  no  clause 

To  hush  Saint  Martin's  steeple ; 
To  bind  the  public's  daughters  sure, 
And  from  stage  larceny  secure 

Us  poor  play-going  people  ? 

No !  Eldon,  all  depends  on  thee  : 
Wards  of  thy  Court  let  heroines  be, 

Who  to  stage  wealth  have  risen ; 
And  then,  if  lovers  ladders  chmb. 
Contempt  of  Court  will  be  their  crime 

The  Fleet  will  be  their  prison. 


DOCTOR  GALL. 


I  SING  of  the  organs  and  fibres 

That  ramble  about  in  the  brains  ; 
Avaunt !  ye  irreverent  jibers, 

Or  stay  and  be  wise  for  your  pains. 
All  heads  were  of  yore  on  a  level. 

One  could  not  tell  clever  from  dull, 
Till  I,  like  Le  Sage's  lame  devil. 

Unroof  d  with  a  touch  every  skull. 
Oh,  I  am  the  mental  dissector, 

I  fathom  the  wits  of  you  all. 


DOCTOR   GALL.  229 

Then  come  in  a  crowd  to  the  lecture 
Of  craniological  Gall. 

The  passions,  or  active  or  passive, 

Exposed  bj  mj  magical  spells, 
As  busy  as  bees  in  a  glass  hive, 

Are  seen  in  their  separate  cells. 
Old  Momus,  who  wanted  a  casement 

Whence  all  in  the  heart  might  be  read, 
AVere  he  living,  would  stare  with  amazement 

To  find  what  he  wants  in  the  head. 

There 's  an  organ  for  strains  amoroso. 

Just  under  the  edge  of  the  wig, 
An  organ  for  writing  but  so-so. 

For  driving  a  tilbury  gig ; 
An  organ  for  boxers,  for  stoics, 

For  giving  booksellers  a  lift, 
For  marching  the  zig-zag  heroics, 

And  editing  Jonathan  Swift 

I  raise  in  match-making  a  rumpus, 

And  Cupid  his  flame  must  impart 
Henceforth  with  a  rule  and  a  compass, 

Instead  of  a  bow  and  a  dart. 
"  Dear  Madam,  your  eye-brow  is  horrid ; 

And  Captain,  too  broad  is  your  pate ; 
I  see  by  that  bump  on  your  forehead 

You're  shockingly  dull  Ule-a-tHte.^'' 

When  practice  has  made  my  book  plamer 
To  manhood,  to  age,  and  to  youth, 

I  '11  build,  hke  the  genius  Phanor, 
In  London  a  palace  of  truth. 


230  LONDON    LYRICS. 

Then  fibs,  ah,  beware  how  you  tell  'em, 
Reflect  how  pellucid  the  skull, 

AYhose  downright  sincere  cerebellum 
Must  render  all  flattery  null. 

Your  friend  brings  a  play  out  at  Drury, 

'Tis  hooted  and  damned  in  the  pit ; 
Your  organ  of  friendship 's  all  fury. 

But  what  says  your  organ  of  wit  ? 
"  Our  laughter  next  time  prithee  stir,  man, 

We  don't  pay  our  money  to  weep ; 
Your  play  must  have  come  from  the  German, 

It  set  all  the  boxes  asleep." 

At  first,  all  will  be  in  a  bustle ; 

The  eye  will,  from  ignorance,  swerve. 
And  some  will  abuse  the  wrong  muscle. 

And  some  will  adore  the  wrong  nerve. 
In  love  should  your  hearts  then  be  sporting, 

Your  heads  on  one  level  to  bring. 
You  must  go  in  your  nightcaps  a-courting, 

As  if  you  were  going  to  swing. 

Yet  some  happy  mortals,  all  virtue. 

Have  sentiment  just  as  they  should. 
Their  occiput  nought  can  do  hurt  to, 

Each  organ's  an  organ  of  good ; 
Such  couples  angelic,  when  mated, 

To  bid  all  concealment  retire, 
Should  seek  Hymen's  altar  bald-pated. 

And  throw  both  their  wigs  in  his  fire. 

My  system,  from  great  A  to  Izzard, 
You  now,  my  good  friends,  may  descry. 


TABLE   TALK.  231 

Not  Shakspearc's  Bermudean  wizard 

Was  half  so  enchanting  as  I. 
His  magic  a  Tempest  could  smother, 

But  mine  the  soul's  hurricane  clears, 
By  exposing  your  heads  to  each  other, 

And  setting  those  heads  by  the  ears. 

Oh,  I  am  the  mental  dissector, 

I  fathom  the  wits  of  you  all ; 
So  here  is  an  end  to  the  lecture 

Of  craniological  Gall. 


TABLE  TALK. 


To  weave  a  culinary  clue, 

When  to  eschew,  and  what  to  chew, 

Where  shun,  and  where  take  rations, 
I  sing.     Attend,  ye  diners- out, 
And  if  my  numbers  please  you,  shout 

"Hear,  hear!"  in  acclamations. 

There  are  who  treat  you  once  a  year. 
To  the  same  stupid  set ;  good  cheer 

Such  hardship  cannot  soften. 
To  hsten  to  the  self  same  dunce. 
At  the  same  laden  table,  once 

Per  annum  's  once  too  often. 

Rather  than  that,  mix  on  my  plate 
With  men  I  like  the  meat  I  hate — 

Colman  with  pig  and  treacle  ; 
Luttrell  with  ven' son-pastry  join. 
Lord  Normanby  with  orange  wine, 

And  rabbit-pie  with  Jekyll. 


232  LONDON   LYRICS. 

Add  to  George  Lambe  a  sable  snipe, 
Conjoin  with  Captain  Morris  tripe 

By  parsley-roots  made  denser ; 
Mix  Macintosh  with  mack' r el,  with 
Calves-head  and  bacon  Sidney  Smith, 

And  mutton-broth  with  Spencer. 

Shun  sitting  next  the  wight  whose  drone 
Bores,  sotto  voce,  you  alone 

With  flat  colloquial  pressure  ; 
Debarred  from  general  talk,  you  droop 
Beneath  his  buzz,  from  orient  Soup 

To  occidental  Cheshire. 

He  who  can  only  talk  with  one. 

Should  stay  at  home  and  talk  with  none — 

At  all  events,  to  strangers, 
Like  village  epitaphs  of  yore. 
He  ought  to  cry  "  Long  time  I  bore," 

To  warn  them  of  their  dangers. 

There  are  whose  kind  inquiries  scan 
Your  total  kindred,  man  by  man, 

Son,  brother,  cousin,  joining, 
They  ask  about  your  wife,  who's  dead, 
And  eulogize  your  uncle  Ned, 

Who  swung  last  week  for  coining. 

When  joined  to  such  a  son  of  prate, 
His  queries  I  anticipate. 

And  thus  my  !ee-way  fetch  up — 
"Sir,  all  my  relatives,  I  vow. 
Are  perfectly  in  health,  and  now 

I'd  thank  you  for  the  ketchup  I" 


TABLE   TALK. 

Others  there  are  who  but  retail 

Their  breakfast  journal,  now  grown  stale, 

In  print  ere  day  was  dawning ; 
When  folks  like  these  sit  next  to  me, 
Thej  send  me  dinnerless  to  tea ; 

One  cannot  chew  while  yawning. 

Seat  not  good  talkers  one  next  one, 
As  Jacquier  beards  the  Clarendon  ; 

Thus  shrouded  you  undo  'em ; 
Rather  confront  them,  face  to  face, 
Like  Holies-street  and  Harewood-place, 

And  let  the  town  run  through  'em. 

Poets  are  dangerous  to  sit  nigh ; 
You  waft  their  praises  to  the  sky, 

And  when  you  think  youVe  stirring 
Their  gratitude,  they  bite  you — (That's 
The  reason  I  object  to  cats ; 

They  scratch  amid  their  purring.) 

For  those  who  ask  you  if  you  "malt," 
Who,  "  beg  your  pardon"  for  the  salt, 

And  ape  our  upper  grandees, 
By  wondering  folks  can  touch  port  wine ; 
That,  reader,  's  your  affair,  not  mine  ; 

I  never  mess  with  dandies. 

Relations  mix  not  kindly  ;  shun 
Inviting  brothers ;  sire  and  son 

Is  not  a  wise  selection  : 
Too  intimate,  they  either  jar 
In  converse,  or  the  evening  mar 

By  mutual  circumspection. 


234  LONDON  LYRICS. 

Lawyers  are  apt  to  think  the  view 
That  interests  them  must  interest  you ; 

Hence  they  appear  at  table 
Or  supereloquent,  or  dumb, 
Fluent  as  nightingales,  or  mum, 

As  horses  in  a  stable. 

When  men  amuse  their  fellow  guests 
With  Crank  and  Jones,  or  Justice  Best's 

Harangue  in  Dobbs  and  E.yal ! 
The  host,  beneath  whose  roof  they  sit, 
Must  be  a  puny  judge  of  wit, 

Who  grants  them  a  new  trial. 

Shun  technicals  in  each  extreme ; 
Exclusive  talk,  whate'er  the  theme. 

The  proper  boundary  passes ; 
Nobles  as  much  offend,  whose  clack  's 
For  ever  running  on  Almack's, 

As  brokers  on  molasses. 

I  knew  a  man  from  glass  to  delf. 
Who  knew  of  nothing  but  himself, 

Till  checked  by  a  vertigo  ; 
The  party  who  beheld  him  "floored," 
Bent  o'er  the  liberated  board, 

And  cried,  "  Hie  jacet  ego." 

Some  aim  to  tell  a  thing  that  hit 

Where  last  they  dmed ;  what  there  was  wit, 

Here  meets  rebuffs  and  crosses. 
Jokes  are  like  trees ;  their  place  of  birth 
Best  suits  them ;  stuck  in  foreign  earth. 

They  perish  in  the  process. 


TABLE   TALK.  235 

Think,  reader,  of  the  feAV  who  groan 
For  any  ailments  save  their  own  ; 

The  world,  from  peer  to  peasant, 
Is  heedless  of  your  cough  or  gout ; 
Then  pr'ythee,  when  you  next  dine  out, 

Go  armed  with  something  pleasant. 

Nay,  even  the  very  soil  that  nursed 
The  plant,  will  sometimes  kill  what  erst 

It  nurtured  in  full  glory. 
Like  causes  will  not  always  move 
To  similar  effects  ;  to  prove 

The  fact,  I'll  tell  a  story. 

Close  to  that  spot  where  Stuart  turns 
His  back  upon  the  clubs,  and  spurns 

The  earth,  a  marble  fixture, 
We  dined ;  well  matched,  for  pleasure  met, 
Wits,  poets,  peers,  a  jovial  set 

In  miscellaneous  mixture. 

Each  card  turned  up  a  trump,  the  glee, 
The  catch  went  round,  from  eight  to  three, 

Decorum  scorned  to  own  us ; 
We  joked,  we  bantered,  laughed,  and  roared, 
Till  high  above  the  welkin  soared, 

The  helpmate  of  Tithonus. 

Care  kept  aloof,  each  social  soul 

A  brother  hailed,  Joy  filled  the  bowl. 

And  humor  crowned  the  medley, 
Till  royal  Charles,  roused  by  the  fun. 
Looked  toward  Whitehall,  and  thought  his  son 

Was  rioting  with  Sedley. 


236  LONDON   LYRICS. 

"  Gad,  John,  this  is  a  glorious  joke — " 
(Thus  to  our  host  his  Highness  spoke) — 

"The  vicar  with  his  Nappy 
Would  give  an  eye  for  this  night's  freak — 
Suppose  we  meet  again  next  week — " 

John  bowed,  and  was  too  "  happy." 

The  day  arrived — 'twas  seven — we  met : 
Wits,  poets,  peers,  the  self-same  set. 

Each  hailed  a  joyous  brother. 
But  in  the  blithe  and  debonnaire, 
Saying,  alas !  is  one  affair, 

And  doing  is  another. 

Nature  unkind,  we  turned  to  Art : 
Heavens  !  how  we  labored  to  be  smart ; 

Zug  sang  a  song  in  German  : 
We  might  as  well  have  played  at  chess ; 
All  dropped  as  dead-born  from  the  press 

As  last  year's  Spital  sermon. 

Ah  !  Merriment !  when  men  entrap 
Thy  bells,  and  women  steal  thy  cap. 

They  think  they  have  trepanned  thee. 
Delusive  thought !  aloof  and  dumb, 
Thou  wilt  not  at  a  bidding  come, 

Though  Royalty  command  thee. 

The  rich,  who  sigh  for  thee ;  the  great, 
Who  court  thy  smiles  with  gilded  plate, 

But  clasp  thy  cloudy  follies : 
I've  known  thee  turn,  in  Portman-square, 
From  Burgundy  and  Hock,  to  share 

A  pint  of  Port  at  Dolly's. 


THE    POET   OF   FASHION.  237 

Races  at  Ascot,  tours  in  Wales, 
White-bait  at  Greenwich  ofttimes  fails, 

To  wake  thee  from  thy  slumbers. 
Even  now,  so  prone  art  thou  to  llj, 
Ungrateful  nymph  !  thou  "rt  fighting  shy 

Of  these  narcotic  numbers. 


THE  POET  OF  FASHION. 

His  book  is  successful,  he  's  steeped  in  renown, 
His  lyric  effusions  have  tickled  the  town ; 
Dukes,  dowagers,  dandies,  are  eager  to  trace 
The  fountain  of  verse  in  the  verse-maker's  face ; 
While,  proud  of  Apollo,  with  peers  ttte-d-tcte, 
From  Monday  till  Saturday  dining  off  plate. 
His  heart  full  of  hope,  and  his  head  full  of  gain, 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Park- lane. 

Now  lean-jointured  widows,  who  seldom  draw  corks, 

Whose  tea-spoons  do  duty  for  knives  and  for  forks, 

Send  forth,  vellum-covered,  a  six  o'clock  card, 

And  get  up  a  dinner  to  peep  at  the  bard  : 

Veal,  sweetbread,  boiled  chickens,  and  tongue,  crown 

the  cloth, 
And  soup  a.  la  reine,  little  better  than  broth  : 
While,  past  his  meridian,  but  still  with  some  heat, 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Sloane-street. 

Enrolled  in  the  tribe  who  subsist  by  their  wits. 
Remembered  by  starts,  and  forgotten  by  fits. 
Now  artists  and  actors  the  bardling  engage. 
To  squib  in  the  journals,  and  write  for  the  stage. 


238  LONDON   LYRICS. 

Now  soup  a  la  reine  bends  the  knee  to  ox-cheek, 
And  chickens  and  tongue  bow  to  bubble  and  squeak — 
While,  still  in  translation  employed  by  "The  Row," 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Soho. 

Pushed  down  from  Parnassus  to  Phlegethon's  brink. 
Tossed,  torn,  and  trunk-lining,  but  still  with  some  ink, 
Now  squab  city  misses  their  albums  expand, 
And  woo  the  worn  rhymer  for  "  something  off-hand;" 
No  longer  with  stilted  effrontery  fraught, 
Bucklersbury  now  seeks  what  St.  James's  once  sought, 
And  (0  what  a  classical  haunt  for  a  bard !) 
The  Poet  of  Fashion  dines  out  in  Barge  Yard. 


NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOURS. 

My  wife  and  I  live,  comme  il  faut, 
At  number  Six  in  Crosby-row : 

So  few  our  household  labors. 
We  quickly  turn  from  joints  and  pies. 
To  use  two  tongues  and  twice  two  eyes 

To  meliorate  our  neighbours. 

My  eye-glass,  thanks  to  Dolland's  skill, 
Sweeps  up  the  lane  to  Mears's  Mill, 

While,  latticed  in  her  chamber. 
My  wife  peeps  through  her  window-pane, 
To  note  who  ramble  round  the  lane, 

And  who  the  foot-stile  clamber. 

This  morn  the  zig-zag  man  of  meat 
Trotted,  tray-balanced,  up  the  street — 
We  saw  him  halt  at  Sydney's : 


NEXT-DOOR   NEIGHBOURS.  239 

JMy  -wife  asserts  he  left  lamb  there ; 
But  I  myself  can  all  but  swear 
'Twas  mutton-chops  and  kidneys. 

The  man  who  goes  about  with  urns 
Is  beckoned  in  by  Betty  Burns : 

The  poor  girl  knows  no  better : 
But  Mrs.  Burns  should  have  more  sense ; 
That  broken  tray  is  mere  pretence — 

He  brings  the  girl  a  letter. 

Whether  she  goes  up  street  for  milk, 
Or  brings  home  sugar,  pins,  or  silk, 

That  silly  wench  for  ever 
Draws  up,  pretending  at  the  stile 
To  rest  herself,  while  all  the  while 

She  waits  for  Captain  Trevor. 

The  Captain,  when  he  sees  me,  turns, 
Seems  not  to  notice  Betty  Burns, 

And  round  the  pond  betakes  him. 
Behind  the  stables  of  the  Bear, 
To  get  the  back  way  in ;  but  there 

My  wife's  back  window  rakes  him. 

There  go  the  Freaks  again — but  hark ! 
I  hear  the  gate-bell  rmg — 'tis  Bark, 

The  glib  apothecary. 
Who  in  his  mortar  pounds  the  fame 
Of  every  rumor- wounded  dame, 

From  Moll  to  Lady  Mary. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bark,"—"  I've  found  her  out." 
"Who  is  she?"—"  Not  his  wife."— "No  doubt." 
"  'Twas  told  me  by  his  brother." 


240  LONDON   LYRICS. 

"Which  brother?  Archibald?"— '' No,  Fred., 
An  old  connexion." — "  So  I  said." 
*'  The  woman  's — "    "  What  ?" — "  His  mother." 

"Who  are  the  comers  next  to  Blake's ?" 

'  'At  number  Four  ?" — "  Yes. ' ' — "  No  great  shakes : 

Sad  junketings  and  castings. 
I've  seen  them  play  in  '  Days  of  Yore,' 
He  acted  Hastings  in  Jane  Shore, 

And  she  Jane  Shore  in  Hastings." 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Bark,  what  party  drove 
That  dark-brown  chariot  to  the  Grove?" 

"  The  Perry's,  Ma'am,  wet  Quakers. 
He  married  Mrs.  Hartley  Grant, 
Whose  father's  uncle's  mother's  aunt 

Lived  cook  at  Lady  Caere's." 

But  Sunday  is  the  time,  of  course, 
When  Gossip's  congregated  force 

Pours  from  our  central  chapel : 
Then  hints  and  anecdotes  increase, 
And  in  the  Mansion-house  of  Peace 

Dark  Discord  drops  her  apple. 

Ope  but  a  casement,  turn  a  lock, 
The  whole  row  feels  the  electric  shock. 

Springs  tilt,  their  blinds  up  throwing. 
And  every  ear  and  every  eye 
Darts  to  one  centre,  to  descry 

Who 's  coming  or  who  's  going. 

Thus  occupied,  in  Crosby-row, 
We  covet  not  the  Grange  or  Stowe ; 
Pent  in  by  walls  and  palings, 


THE    IMAGE    BOY.  241 


Their  lordly  tenants  can't,  like  us, 
Drop  in  at  tea-time  to  discuss 

Their  neio-hbours'  faults  and  failinsrs. 


THE  IMAGE   BOY. 


Whoe  'er  has  trudged,  on  frequent  feet, 
From  Charing  Cross  to  Ludgate-street, 

That  haunt  of  noise  and  wrangle, 
Has  seen,  on  journeying  through  the  Strand, 
A  foreign  Image-vender  stand 

Near  Somerset  quadrangle. 

His  coal-black  eye,  his  balanced  walk, 
His  sable  apron,  white  with  chalk, 

His  listless  meditation. 
His  curly  locks,  his  sallow  cheeks, 
His  board  of  celebrated  Greeks, 

Proclaim  his  trade  and  nation. 

Not  on  that  board,  as  erst,  are  seen 
A  taAvdry  troop ;  our  gracious  Queen 

With  tresses  like  a  carrot. 
A  milk-maid  with  a  pea-green  pail, 
A  poodle  with  a  golden  tail, 

John  "Wesley,  and  a  parrot ; — 

No ;  far  more  classic  is  his  stock ; 
With  ducal  Arthur,  Milton,  Locke, 

He  bears,  unconscious  roamer, 
Alcmena's  Jove-begotten  Son, 
Cold  Abelard's  too  tepid  nun. 

And  pass-supported  Homer. 
11 


242  LONDON    LYRICS. 

See  yonder  bust  adorned  with  curls; 
'Tis  hers,  the  Queen  who  melted  pearls 

Marc  Antony  to  wheedle. 
Her  bark,  her  banquets,  all  are  fled ; 
And  Time,  who  cut  her  vital  thread, 

Has  only  spared  her  Needle. 

Stern  Neptune,  with  his  triple  prong, 
Childe  Harold,  peer  of  peerless  song, 

So  frolic  Fortune  wills  it, 
Stand  next  the  Son  of  crazy  Paul, 
Who  hugged  the  intrusive  King  of  Gaul 

Upon  a  raft  at  Tilsit. 

"  Poor  vagrant  child  of  want  and  toil! 
The  sun  that  warms  thy  native  soil 

Has  ripened  not  thy  knowledge ; 
'Tis  obvious,  from  that  vacant  air, 
Though  Padua  gave  thee  birth,  thou  ne'er 

Didst  graduate  in  her  College. 

"  'Tis  true  thou  nam'st  thy  motley  freight; 
But  from  what  source  their  birth  they  date, 

]\Iythology  or  history. 
Old  records,  or  the  dreams  of  youth, 
Dark  fable,  or  transparent  truth, 

Is  all  to  thee  a  mystery. 

"  Come  tell  me,  Vagrant,  in  a  breath, 
Alcides'  birth,  his  life,  his  death, 

Recount  his  dozen  labours : 
Homer  thou  know'st ;  but  of  the  woes 
Of  Troy  thou  'rt  ignorant  as  those 

Dark  Orange-boys  thy  neighbours." 


THE   IMAGE    BOY.  243 

'Twas  thuSj  erect,  I  deigned  to  pour 
Mj  shower  of  lordlj  pity  o'er 

The  poor  Italian  Avittol, 
As  men  are  apt  to  do  to  show 
Their  vantage-ground  o'er  those  who  know 

Just  less  than  their  own  little. 

When  lo,  methought  Prometheus'  flame 
Waved  o'er  a  bust  of  deathless  fame, 

And  woke  to  life  Childe  Harold : 
The  Bard  aroused  me  from  mj  dream 
Of  pity,  alias  self-esteem, 

And  thus  indignant  carolled  : 

"  0  thou,  who  thus,  in  numbers  pert 
And  petulant,  presum'st  to  flirt 

With  Memory's  Nine  Daughters  : 
Whose  verse  the  next  trade-winds  that  blow 
Down  narrow  Paternoster-row 

Shall  whelm  in  Lethe's  waters  : 

"  Slight  is  the  diiFerence  I  see 
Between  yon  Paduan  youth  and  thee ; 

He  moulds,  of  Paris  plaster. 
An  urn  by  classic  Chantrey's  laws — 
And  thou  a  literary  vase 

Of  would-be  alabaster. 

"Were  I  to  arbitrate  betwixt 
His  terra  cotta,  plain  or  mixed, 

And  thy  earth-gendered  sonnet. 
Small  cause  has  he  th'  award  to  dread : — 
Thy  images  are  in  the  head. 

And  his,  poor  boy,  are  on  it !" 


244  LONDON   LYRICS. 


THE  LEES  AND  THE  LAWSONS. 

If  you  call  on  the  Lees,  north  of  Bloomsbury-square, 
They  welcome  you  blandly,  they  proffer  a  chair. 

Decorously  mild  and  well  bred : 
Intent  on  their  music,  their  books,  or  their  pen, 
Employment  absorbs  their  attention,  and  men 

Seem  totally  out  of  their  head. 

If  you  call  on  the  Lawsons,  in  Bloomsbury-place, 
No  fabric  of  order  you  seem  to  deface, 

No  sober  arrangement  to  break : 
They  lounge  on  the  sofo,  their  manners  are  odd, 
Men  drop  in  at  luncheon,  and  give  them  a  nod, 

Then  run  to  the  sherry  and  cake. 

The  house  of  the  Lees  has  an  orderly  air, 
It  sets  to  its  brethren  of  brick  in  the  square 

A  model  from  attic  to  basement : 
The  knocker  is  polished,  the  name  is  japanned, 
The  step,  unpolluted,  is  sprinkled  with  sand. 

White  blinds  veil  the  drawing-room  casement. 

The  house  of  the  Lawsons  is  toute  autre  chose, 
It  certainly  proffers  no  air  of  repose, 

For  one  of  the  girls  always  lingers 
Athwart  the  verandah,  alert  as  an  ape, 
To  note  to  her  sisters  the  forthcoming  gape, 

Be  it  monkeys  or  Savoyard  singers. 

Whenever  the  Lees  to  the  theatre  stray, 
The  singers  who  sing,  and  the  players  who  play, 
Attentive,  untalkative,  find  'era : 


THE    LEES   AND    THE    LAWSONS.  245 

With  sound  to  allure  them,  or  sense  to  attract, 
They  rarely  turn  round,  till  the  end  of  the  act, 
To  talk  Avith  the  party  behind  'em. 

The  Lavrsous  are  bent  on  a  different  thing  : 
Miss  Paton  may  Avarble,  Miss  Ayton  may  sing, 

To  listeners  tier  above  tier : 
They  heed  not  song,  character,  pathos,  or  plot, 
But  turn  their  heads  back,  to  converse  with  a  knot 

Of  dandies  Avho  lounge  in  the  rear. 

In  life's  onward  path  it  has  happened  to  me 
With  many  a  Lawson  and  many  a  Lee, 

In  parties  to  mix  and  to  mingle  : 
And  somehow,  in  spite  of  manoeuvres  and  plans, 
I've  found  that  the  Lees  got  united  in  banns, 

AYhile  most  of  the  Lawsons  keep  single. 

Coy  Hymen  is  like  the  black  maker  of  rum — 
"  De  more  massa  call  me  de  more  I  vont  come," 

He  flies  from  the  forward  and  bold  : 
He  gives  to  the  coy  what  he  keeps  from  the  kind  ; 
The  maidens  who  seek  him,  the  maidens  who  find, 

Are  cast  in  an  opposite  mould. 

Ye  female  gymnasians,  who  strive  joint  by  joint, 
Come  give  to  my  Lawsons  some  lessons  in  point, 

(They  can't  from  their  own  sex  refuse  'em  ;) 
Whenever  you  plan  an  athletic  attack, 
You  know,  from  experience,  to  jump  on  man's  back 

Is  not  the  rioiht  road  to  his  bosom. 


ISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


COUNTRY  COMMISSIONS. 

Cousin  Charles,  please  to  send  down  to-morrow, 

At  eight,  bj  the  Scarborough  mail, 
Claudine,  or  the  Victim  of  Sorrow, 

Don  Juan,  two  mops,  and  a  pail. 
As  soon  as  jou  enter  Hjde  Park,  it 

Must  suit  you  to  call  in  Gough-square ; 
And  when  you  're  in  Leadenhall  Market, 

Buy  a  rattle  at  Bartl'my  Fair. 

Do  give  the  enclosed  to  George  Colburn, 

The  tinman — he's  sure  to  be  found — 
xle  lives  in  Southampton-street,  Holburn. 

Or  else  near  the  Islington  Pound. 
Papa  wants  a  hamper  of  claret 

Like  that  which  he  smuggled  from  Tours, 
Aunt  Agatha  wants  a  poll  parrot — 

Perhaps  you  could  let  her  have  yours. 

We  are  dying  for  Lord  Byron's  sonnet, 
Tell  Jones  I  have  sent  him  a  pig, 

Mamma  wants  a  new  sarcenet  bonnet, 
The  size  of  the  head  of  our  gig. 


COUNTRY    COMMISSIONS.  247 

Could  you  match  the  enclosed  bit  of  ribbon — 

Do  buy  Tom  an  ounce  of  rape-seed ; 
When  you  send  the  third  volume  of  Gibbon, 

Do  send  Jack  a  velocipede. 

Some  shears  that  old  Dobbin  will  well  dock, 

A  mouse-trap,  a  gold-headed  cane, 
A  bottle  of  Steers'  opodeldoc. 

Three  ounces  of  alicampane, 
Gold  wire  from  Duke's  Head,  Little  Britain, 

A  purple  tin  kaleidoscope, 
A  tea-tray,  a  tortoise-shell  kitten, 

Rob  Roy,  and  a  long  bit  of  soap. 

Six  ounces  of  Bohca  from  T  wining' s, 

A  peg-top,  a  Parmesan  cheese. 
Some  rose-coloured  sarcenet  for  linings, 

A  stew-pan,  and  Stevenson's  Glees ; 
A  song  ending  "  Hey  noni  noni," 

A  chair  with  a  cover  of  chintz, 
A  mummy  dug  up  by  Belzoni, 

A  skein  of  white  worsted  from  Flint's. 

ANSWER. 

Can  I  pocket  St.  Paul's  like  an  apple, 

Take  Waterloo  bridge  in  my  teeth. 
Mount  astride  the  Green  Dragon,  Whitechapel, 

And  fight  all  the  butchers  beneath? 
Can  I  eat  Bank  directors  by  dozens. 

Put  the  national  debt  in  a  dish  ? 
If  I  cannot  my  dear  country  cousins, 

I  cannot  do  half  what  you  wish ! 


248  THE   MAMMOTH. 


THE  MA^IMOTH. 

Soon  as  the  deluge  ceased  to  pour 
The  flood  of  death  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  verdure  smiled  again, 
Hatched  amidst  elemental  strife, 
I  sought  the  upper  realms  of  life, 

The  tyrant  of  the  plain. 

On  India's  shores  my  dwelling  lay — 
Gigantic,  as  I  roamed  for  prey. 

All  nature  took  to  flight ! 
At  my  approach  the  lofty  woods 
Submissive  bowed,  the  trembling  floods 

Drew  backward  with  affright. 

Creation  felt  a  general  shock : 

The  screaming  eagle  sought  the  rock. 

The  elephant  was  slain ; 
Afii'ighted,  meiioto  caves  retreat. 
Tigers  and  leopards  licked  my  feet, 

And  owned  my  lordly  reign. 

Thus  many  moons  my  course  I  ran, 
The  general  foe  of  beast  and  man. 

Till  on  one  fatal  day 
The  lion  led  the  bestial  train, 
And  I,  alas !  was  quickly  slain, 

As  gorged  with  food  I  lay. 

With  lightning's  speed  the  rumour  spiead- 
"  Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  the  Mammoth  's  dead. 
Resounds  from  shore  to  shore. 


THE    MAMMOTH,  249 

Pomona,  Ceres,  thrive  again, 
And,  laughing,  join  tlie  choral  strain, 
''The  Mammoth  is  no  more." 

In  earth's  deep  caverns  long  immured, 
My  skeleton,  from  view  secured, 

In  dull  oblivion  lay ; 
Till  late,  with  industry  and  toil, 
A  youth  subdued  the  stuliborn  soil, 

And  dragged  me  forth  to  day. 

In  London  now  my  body 's  shown. 
And  while  the  crowd  o'er  every  bone 

Incline  the  curious  head. 
They  view  my  form  with  wondering  eye, 
And  pleased  in  fancied  safety,  cry — 

"Thank  Heaven,  the  monster's  dead." 

0  mortals,  blind  to  future  ill, 

My  race  yet  lives,  it  prospers  still — 

Nay,  start  not  with  surprise : 
Behold,  from  Corsica's  small  isle, 
Twin-born  in  cruelty  and  guile, 

A  second  Mammoth  rise  ! 

He  seeks,  on  fortune's  billows  borne, 
A  land  by  revolution  torn, 

A  prey  to  civil  hate  : 
And  seizing  on  a  lucky  time 
Of  Gallic  frenzy,  Gallic  crime. 

Assumes  the  regal  state. 

Batavian  freedom  floats  in  air, 
The  patriot  Swiss,  in  deep  despair, 
Deserts  liis  native  land ; 


250  SONNETS   IN   IMITATION    OF   SHAKSPEARE. 

While  haughty  Spain  hcv  monarch  sees 
Submissive  wait,  on  bended  knees, 
The  tyrant's  dread  command. 

All  Euroi^e  o'er,  the  giant  stalks, 
Whole  nations  tremble  as  he  walks, 

Extinct  their  martial  fire  : 
The  Northern  Bear  lies  down  to  rest, 
The  Prussian  Eagle  seeks  her  nest, 

The  Austrian  bands  retire. 

Yet,  ah !  a  storm  begins  to  lower, 
Satiate  with  cruelty  and  power, 

At  ease  the  monster  lies ; 
Lion  of  Britain,  led  by  you, 
If  Europe's  sons  the  fight  renew, 

A  second  Mammoth  dies.* 


SONNETS  IN  IMITATION  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 

Absence  and  Presence,  born  of  elder  Night, 
O'er  common  mortals  hold  a  common  sway ; 
Absence  alights  when  Presence  takes  her  flight. 
Presence  presides  when  Absence  is  away. 
O'er  life's  dull  ocean,  borne  with  steady  sails. 
Alike,  as  brother  oft  resembles  brother ; 
By  cold  indifference  poised  in  equal  scales. 
The  one  may  well  pass  current  for  the  other. 
But  (thee  once  known)  what  heart  can  ever  know, 
Oblivion,  weed  that  rots  on  Lethe's  wharf? 

*  This  poem,  admirably  translated  into  French  by  M.  Peltier, 
widely  circulated  upon  the  Continent. — 


PH(EBE,    OR   MY    GRANDMOTHER   WEST.  251 

Presence  dispensing  joy,  and  Absence  woe, 
Tliis  soars  a  giant,  and  that  droops  a  dwarf. 
Oh  !  disproportioned  size  of  joy  and  grief. 
Absence,  how  endless  long,  and  Presence  brief ! 


Thou  'It  still  survive,  when  I  to  time  shall  bow, 

When  my  leaves  scattered  lie,  thy  rose  will  bloom; 

Thou  "It  walk  the  earth,  alert  as  thou  art  now, 

AVhen  I  am  mould' ring  in  the  silent  tomb ; 

My  face,  my  form,  traced  by  the  graver's  tool, 

Thou  boldest :  hold  them  then ;  and,  with  a  sigh, 

When  shadowing  night  shall  o'er  the  Avelkin  rule, 

Bethink  thee,  musing,  of  the  days  gone  by. 

Be  not  too  happy,  or  my  jealous  sprite 

Shall  deem  thy  laughter  light,  thy  spirits  folly ; 

But,  gazing  on  my  portraiture,  unite 

Serene  content  with  sober  melancholy, 

And  cast,  in  thy  beloved  sobriety, 

Some  thouo-hts  on  him  whose  all  thoughts  dwelt  on  thee. 


PHCEBE,  OR  MY  GRANDMOTHER  WEST. 

Ah,  Phoebe  !  how  slily,  love's  arrow  to  barb. 
You  've  stolen  down  stairs  in  your  grandmamma's  garb  ! 
Your  ringlet-graced  head,  and  your  stomacher  flat, 
The  cut  of  your  cloak,  and  the  bend  of  your  hat. 
Your  flounce  and  your  furbelow,  all  have  confessed 
Your  masquerade  likeness  to  Grandmamma  West. 

That  necklace  of  coral  I've  seen  all  afloat 

''Ere  wrecked  by  old  Time)  on  your  grandmamma's  throat ; 


252  TIME    AND    LOVE. 

Her  hands,  alike  gazed  on  bj  dandies  and  boors, 
I've  seen  her  fold  often  as  now  you  fold  yours ; 
While  crowds  havo  around  her  at  Ranelagh  press'd, 
Allured  by  the  beauty  of  Grandmamma  West. 

Hold,  Phoebe  !  thou  archest  of  heart-stealing  girls. 

Thy  hat,  and  thy  cloak,  and  thy  lace,  and  thy  pearls 

May  not  be  cast  off,  till  thy  painter  shall  trace 

The  raiment  antique,  and  thy  juvenile  face, 

With  the  ringlets  and  flounces  that  once  gave  a  zest 

To  the  now  waning  charms  of  your  Grandmamma  West 

'Tis  done;  now  begone,  and  remember  that  Time, 
By  steps  slow  and  sure  is  corroding  your  prime. 
An  sera  shall  come,  spite  of  hopes  and  of  fears, 
When  Phoebe  shall  be  what  she  now  but  appears, 
A  tidy  old  woman  arrayed  in  her  best, 
A  counterfeit  true  of  her  Grandmamma  West. 


TIME  AND   LOVE. 


An  artist  painted  Time  and  Love  ; 
Time  with  two  pinions  spread  above, 

And  Love  without  a  feather  ; 
Sir  Harry  patronized  the  plan, 
And  soon  Sir  Hal  and  Lady  Ann 

In  wedlock  came  together. 

Copies  of  each  the  dame  bespoke  : 
The  artist,  ere  he  drew  a  stroke. 

Reversed  his  old  opinions, 
And  straightway  to  the  fair  one  brings 
Time  in  his  turn  devoid  of  wings, 

And  Cupid  with  two  pinions. 


PROVERBS.  253 

"What  blunder's  tliis?"'  the  lady  cries, 
'•'  No  blunder,  Madam,"  he  replie?,, 

'•  I  hope  I  "m  not  so  stupid. 
Each  has  his  pinions  in  his  day. 
Time,  before  marriage,  flies  away, 

And,  after  marriage,  Cupid." 


PROVERBS. 


My  good  Aunt  Bridget,  spite  of  age, 
Versed  in  Valerian,  Dock,  and  Sage, 

Well  knew  the  virtues  of  herbs ; 
But  Proverbs  gain'd  her  chief  applause, 
"  Child,"  she  exclaim'd,  "respect  old  saws, 

And  pin  your  fliith  on  Proverbs." 

Thus  taught,  I  dubb'd  my  lot  secure  ; 
And,  playing  long-rope,  "  slow  and  sure," 

Conceived  my  movement  clever. 
When  lo !  an  urchin  liy  my  side 
Push'd  me  head  foremost  in,  and  cried 

"  Keep  Moving, "   '•  Now  or  Never." 

At  Melton  next  I  join'd  the  hunt, 
Of  bogs  and  bushes  bore  the  brunt. 

Nor  once  my  courser  held  in ; 
But  when  I  saw  a  yawning  steep, 
I  thought  of  "  Look  bcfoi-e  you  leap," 

And  curbed  my  eager  gelding. 

While  doubtful  thus  I  rein'd  my  roan^ 
Willing  to  save  a  fractured  bone, 
Yet  fearful  of  exposure  ; 
n* 


254  THE   YEAR   TWENTY-SIX. 

A  sportsman  thus  my  spirit  stirred — 
"  Delays  are  dangerous," — I  spurred 
My  steed,  and  leaped  the  enclo?.nre. 

I  ogled  Jane,  who  heard  me  say, 
That  "  Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day," 

When  lo !  Sir  Fleet  0^ Grady 
Put  this,  my  saw,  to  sea  again, 
And  proved,  by  running  off  with  Jane, 

"  Faint  heart  ne'er  won  fliir  Lady." 

Aware  "New  brooms  sweep  clean,"  I  took 
An  untaught  tyro  for  a  cook, 

(The  tale  I  tell  a  fact  is ;) 
She  spoilt  my  soup  :  but,  when  I  chid. 
She  thus  once  more  my  work  undid, 

"Perfection  comes  from  Practice." 

Thus,  out  of  every  adage  hit. 
And,  finding  that  ancestral  wit 

As  changeful  as  the  clime  is : 
From  Proverbs,  turning  on  my  heel, 
I  now  cull  Wisdom  from  my  seal, 

Whose  motto's  "  Ne  quid  nimis." 


THE  YEAR  TWENTY-SIX. 

'Tis  gone  with  its  toys  and  its  troubles. 
Its  essays  on  cotton  and  corn. 

Its  laughing-stock  company  bubbles, 
Its  Cherry-ripe — (music  by  Horn.) 


THE   YEAR   TWENTY-SIX.  255 

'Tis  gone,  ^vith  its  Catholic  Question, 
Its  Shicls,  its  O^Connells,  and  Brics: 

Time,  finding  it  light  of  digestion, 
Has  swallow'd  the  Year  Twenty-six. 

I've  penned  a  few  private  mementoes 

Of  schemes  that  I  meant  to  effect, 
Which,  sure  as  I  hobble  on  ten  toes, 

I  vow'd  I'd  no  longer  neglect. 
"My  wits,"  lexclaim'd,  " are  receding, 

"Tis  time  I  their  energies  fix : 
I'll  write  the  town  something  worth  reading, 

To  finish  the  Year  Twenty-six." 

ISIy  pamphlet,  to  tell  Mr.  Canning 
The  Czar  has  an  eye  on  the  Turk ; 

My  treatise,  to  show  Mr.  Manning 
The  way  to  make  currency  work : 

My  essay,  to  prove  to  the  nations  ^ 
(As  sure  as  wax-candles  have  wicks) 

Greek  bonds  are  not  Greek  obligations- 
Were  planned  in  the  Year  Twenty-six. 

I  sketched  out  a  novel,  where  laughter 

Should  scare  evangelic  Trcmaine, 
Shake  Brambletye  House  off  its  rafter, 

And  level  Tor  Hill  with  the  plain. 
Those  volumes,  as  grave  as  my  grandam, 

I  swore  with  my  book  to  transfix : 
'Twas  called  the  New  Roderick  Random, 

And  meant  for  the  Year  Twenty-six. 

My  play  had— I'd  have  the  town  know  it — 
A  part  for  Miss  Elinor  Tree ; 


256  THE   YEAR   TWENTY-SIX. 

At  Drurj  I  meant  to  bestow  it 

On  Price,  the  gigantic  lessee. 
Resolved  the  fourth  act  to  diminish, 

('Tis  there,  I  suspect,  the  plot  sticks,) 
I  solemnly  swore  that  I'd  finish 

The  fifth,  in  the  Year  Twentj-six. 

But  somehow  I  thought  the  Haymarket 

Was  better  for  hearing  by  half. 
To  people  who  live  near  the  Park  it 

Affords  the  best  home  for  a  laugh. 
"There  Listen,"  I  muttered,  "  has  taught 'em 

Mirth's  balm  in  their  bitters  to  mix  : 
I'll  write  such  a  part  in  the  autumn 

For  him — in  the  Year  Twenty-six  !" 

I  meant  to  complete  my  Italian — 

('Tis  done  in  a  twelvemonth  with  ease,) 
Nor  longer,  as  mute  as  Pygmalion, 

Hang  over  the  ivory  keys. 
I  meant  to  learn  music,  much  faster 

Than  fellows  at  Eton  learn  tricks  : 
Vercellini  might  teach  me  to  master 

The  notes,  in  the  Year  Twenty-six. 

'Tis  past,  with  its  corn  and  its  cotton, 

Its  shareholders  broken  and  bit : 
And  where  is  my  pamphlet  ?  forgotten. 

And  where  is  my  treatise  ?  unwrit. 
My  essay,  my  play,  and  my  novel, 

Like  so  many  Tumble-down  Dicks, 
All,  all  in  inanity  grovel — 

Alas !  for  the  Year  Twenty-six. 


THE  TABLET  OF  TRUTH.  257 

My  Haymarket  fiirce  is  a  bubble, 

My  Bocca  Romana  moves  stiff, 
I've  spared  Verccllini  all  trouble, 

I  do  n't  even  know  the  bass  cliff. 
My  brain  has  (supine  anti-breeder) 

Neglected  to  hatch  into  chicks 
Ilcr  offspring — Pray  how,  gentle  reader, 

Thrive  you  for  the  Year  Twenty-six  ? 

George  Whitfield,  whom  nobody  mentions 

Now  Irving  has  got  mto  fame, 
Has  paved  with  abortive  intentions 

A  place  too  caloric  to  name. 
I  fear,  if  his  masonry 's  real. 

That  mine  have  Macadamized  Styx : 
So  empty,  cloud-capped,  and  ideal, 

My  plans  for  the  Year  Twenty-six ! 

Past  Year!  if,  to  quash  all  evasions. 

Thou  'dst  have  me  with  granite  repair, 
On  good  terra  firma  foundations, 

My  castles  now  nodding  in  air  : 
Bid  Time  from  my  brow  steal  his  traces 

(As  Bardolph  abstracted  the  Pix), 
Run  back  on  his  road  a  few  paces, 

And  make  me— like  thee — Twenty-six. 


THE  T^VBLET  OF  TRUTH. 

Sit  down,  Mr.  Clipstonc,  and  take 

These  hints,  Avhile  my  feelings  are  fresh ; 

My  uncle,  Sir  Lionel  Lake, 

Has  journeyed  the  way  of  all  flesh. 


258  THE  TABLET  OF  TRUTH. 

His  heirs  would  in  marble  imprint 
His  merits  aloft  o'er  his  pew — 

Allow  me  the  outline  to  hint — 

To  finish,  of  course,  rests  with  you. 

And  first,  with  a  visage  of  woe, 

Carve  two  little  cherubs  of  love, 
Lamenting  to  lose  one  below 

They  never  will  look  on  above. 
And  next,  in  smooth  porphyry  mould, 

(You  cannot  well  cut  them  too  small) 
Two  hliput  goblets,  to  hold 

The  tears  that  his  widow  lets  fall. 

Where  charity  seeks  a  supply 

He  leaves  not  his  equal  behind : 
I'm  told  there  is  not  a  dry  eye 

In  the  School  for  the  Indigent  Blind. 
Then  chisel  (not  sunk  in  repose. 

But  in  alto  reliefs  to  endure.) 
An  orderly  line  of  round  O's 

For  the  money  he  gave  to  the  poor. 

I  league  not  in  rhyme  with  the  band 

Who  elevate  sound  over  sense  : 
Where  Vanity  bellows  "  expand," 

Humility  whispers  "condense." 
Then  mark,  with  your  mallet  and  blade, 

To  paint  the  defunct  to  the  life, 
Four  stars  for  his  conduct  in  trade, 

And  a  blank  for  his  love  of  his  wife. 

'Tis  done — to  complete  a  design, 
In  brevity  rivalling  Greece, 


CLUB    LAW. 

Imprint  mo  a  black  dotted  line 

For  the  friends  who  lament  his  decease 
Thus  lettered  with  merited  praise, 

Ere  long  shall  our  travel-fraught  youth 
Turn  back  from  the  false  Pcre  la  Chaise 

To  gaze  on  my  Tablet  of  Truth. 


CLUB  LAW. 


Dear  Tom,  since  by  a  lucky  knack, 
Your  white  balls  overtop  the  black, 

And  counter-canvass  smother, 
Let  me  your  mental  garment  darn, 
As  old  Polonius  spun  a  yarn 

To  fair  Ophelia's  brother. 

"  Be  thou  familiar,"  should  you  see 
At  dinner  an  austere  M.P. 

Just  as  his  glass  he's  filling, 
Accost  him — whatsoe'er  his  rank — 
With  "  Sir,  I'd  thank  you  for  a  frank," 

And  save  your  aunt  a  shilling. 

"  Give  every  man  (of  wealth)  thine  ear;' 
Smile  when  he  smiles,  his  sallies  cheer. 

Out  his  connexions  ferret; 
Or  roar  his  catch,  or  sing  his  psalm : 
But,  Thomas,  ''  never  dull  thy  palm" 

By  shaking  hands  Avith  Merit. 

At  a  house-dinner  show  your  fun — 
Mount  a  horse-laugh,  quiz,  banter,  pun, 
Be  saucy  as  a  gquirrel ; 


260  CLUB    LAW. 

But  if  your  foe  possess  a  pair 
Of  Manton's  polished  pops,  "beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel." 

If  a  roast  fillet  deck  the  board, 
With  bacon,  you  can  well  afford 

To  leave  the  viand  /^er  se ; 
But  if  a  haunch  supplant  the  veal, 
"Grapple"  the  joint  'Mvith  hooks  of  steel," 

And  carve  it  without  mercy. 

"  Apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man :" 
Wear,  then,  the  richest  garb  you  can, 

Whilst  in  the  club  a  dweller ; 
And  if  men  doubt  your  means  and  ways. 
Reverse  the  caveat  emptoi-  phrase. 

And  cast  it  to  the  seller. 

"Take  each  man's  censure"   in  good  patt-— 
Pliant  humility 's  an  art 

That  copper  turns  to  siller. 
"  Be  not  a  lender" — memories  flit; 
"  Nor  borrower" — unless  a  Avit 

From  old  Josephus  Miller. 

Place  on  the  fender  both  your  feet ; 
When  Boreas  howls,  complain  of  heat. 

And  open  all  the  windows ; 
Ring  for  the  waiter,  bang  the  door. 
And  for  your  brethren  care  no  more 

Than  Tippoo  cared  for  Hindoos. 

Never  to  acquiesce  be  seen  ; 
To  those  who  dwell  on  Edmund  Kean, 
Talk  of  John  Kemble's  glories. 


THE   SWISS   COTTAGE.  261 

Dub  all  -who  do  the  civil,  prigs  ; 
Revile  Loi-d  Melbourne  to  the  Whigs, 
Sir  Robert  to  the  Tories. 

And  now,  dear  Tom,  farewell ;  the  gale 
"  Sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail," — 

Defy  disapprobation : 
For,  till  committee-men  begin 
To  ballot  out^  as  well  as  in, 
You're  safe  in  your  location. 


THE  SWISS  COTTAGE. 

"Ye  gastric  graces  of  Pall  Mall, 
Fish,  soup,  and  pate,  fare  ye  well. 

Give  me  some  cot  Helvetian, 
Thither  I  fain  my  flight  would  wing, 
Of  clubs  the  abdicated  king. 

An  uncrown' d  Dioclesian."' 

Scarce  had  I  thus  petitioned  Fate, 
When  lo  !  a  card  with  lines  so  straight, 

Arachne  seemed  to  rule  'em, 
Wooed  me  to  fair  Pastora's  shrine — 
An  invitation  out  to  dine 

At  Ivy  Cottage,  Fulham  ! 

"  'Tis  well !"  I  cried.     "  At  Wilt's  control 
Here  Temperance  will  pass  the  bowl. 

And  Health  rise  up  the  winner. 
Full  well  I  know  the  classic  spot — 
Swiss  is  the  scenery,  Swiss  the  cot, 

And  Swiss,  no  doubt  the  dinner. 


262  THE   SWISS   COTTAGE. 

"  Deal  table ;  cloth  as  smooth  as  silk ; 
Brown  loaf;  an  avalanche  of  milk; 

At  most  a  brace  of  rabbits ; 
Cheese,  hard  enough  to  pose  a  shark ; 
And  water,  '  clear  as  di'mond  spark,' 

To  suit  my  Hindoo  habits. 

'^Six  three-legg'd  stools,  of  antique 
Ripe  figs  ;  a  plate  of  purple  grapes, 

As  sweet  as  honeysuckles ; 
A  girl  to  wait,  of  buxom  hue. 
In  dark-brown  bodice,  apron  blue, 

Red  hose,  and  silver  buckles." 

Nought  rose  to  sever  lip  and  cup : 
I  came.     Had  Fanny  Kelly  up 

The  outside  stair  been  skipping. 
With  three  long  plaits  of  braided  hair, 
'T would  seem  the  ipse  locus  where 

Macready  pierced  the  pippin. 


But  soon  the  inside  put  to  rout 
The  dreams  engendered  by  the  out; 

Chintz  chairs  with  sofa  paddings  ; 
Bright  stoves,  at  war  with  humid  damps  : 
Pianos  ;  rosewood  tables ;   lamps, 

As  brilliant  as  Aladdin's. 

rish,  soup,  and  mutton,  finely  dress'd, 
Adorned  the  board  :  a  pleasant  guest 

Was  placed  my  right  and  left  on ; 
With  dishes  lateral,  endued 
With  flavor  to  astonish  Ude, 

Lucullus,  or  Lord  Sefton. 


FIVE    HUNDRED    A    YEAR.  26i 

The  party,  'mid  the  sound  of  corks, 
(Although  the  bread  was  Avhite ;  the  forks 

Were  silver,  not  metallic,) 
Seemed  not  to  see  the  joke  was  this. 
That,  while  the  outside  walls  were  Swiss, 

The  feast  was  Anglo-Gallic. 

So,  as  in  eastern  song  is  shown, 
Some  sable,  antiquated  crone, 

As  wily  as  a  bailiff. 
Leads,  blindfold,  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
Some  youth,  through  alleys  dark,  to  please 

Great  Haroiin  the  Caliph. 

The  bandage  gone,  a  blaze  of  light 
Salutes  his  now  enchanted  sight; 

He  views  a  new  creation : 
Dim  Bagdad  totters  to  its  fall, 
A  fairy  palace  smiles,  and  all 

Is  bright  illumination. 


FIVE  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

That  gilt  middle  path,  which  the  poet  of  Rome 

Extolled  as  the  only  safe  highway  to  bliss ; 
That  '-haven"  which  many  a  poet  at  home 

Assures  us  all  Guinea-bound  merchantmen  miss ; 
That  blessed  middle  line. 
Which  bard  and  divine 

In  sonnet  and  sermon  so  sigh  for,  is  mine ; — 
My  uncle,  a  plain  honest  flit  auctioneer, 
Walked  off,  and  bequeathed  me  Five  Hundred  a  year. 


264  FIVE    HUNDRED    A    YEAR. 

I  ne'er,  if  I  live  to  the  age  of  Old  Parr, 

Can  fail  to  remember  how  stared  brother  Bill, 
Jack  bullied,  and  Tom,  who  is  now  at  the  Bar, 
Drove  post  to  a  Proctor  to  knock  up  the  will. 
They  never  could  trace 
What  beauty  or  grace 
Sir  Christopher  Catalogue  saw  in  my  face, 
To  cut  off  three  youths,  to  his  bosom  so  dear, 
And  deluge  a  fourth  with  Five  Hundred  a  year  ! 

The  will,  though  law-beaten,  stood  firm  as  a  rock. 
The  probate  was  properly  lodged  at  the  Bank : 
Transferred  to  my  name  stood  the  spleen-moving  stock, 
And  I,  in  the  West,  bearded  people  of  rank. 
No  longer  a  clerk, 
I  rode  in  the  Park, 

Or  lounged  in  Pall  ]\Iall  till  an  hour  after  dark. 
I  entered,  what  seemed  then,  a  happy  career, 
Possessed  of  a  gig  and  Five  Hundi'ed  a  year. 

Ere  long,  I  began  to  be  bored  by  a  guest, 

A  strange  sort  of  harpy,  who  poisoned  my  feast : 
He  visits,  in  London,  the  folks  who  dwell  West, 
But  seldom  cohabits  with  those  who  live  East. 
Bar,  door-chain,  or  key. 
Could  not  keep  me  free — 
As  brisk  as  a  bailiff  in  bolted  Enmu. 
"  I"m  come,"  he  still  cried,  '•  to  partake  of  your  cheer, 
I'm  partial  to  folks  of  Five  Hundred  a  year."" 

Meanwhile  my  three  brothers,  by  prudence  and  care, 
Got  onward  in  life,  while  I  stuck  by  the  wall ; 

Bill  opened  a  tea-shop  in  Bridgewater-square, 
I-  id  Jack,  as  a  writer,  grew  rich  in  Bengal. 


FIVE    HUNDRED    A    YEAR.  265 

Tom  made  his  impressions 

Through  Newgate  transgressions, 

And  got  half  the  business  at  Clerkenwell  Sessions. 
They  marched  in  the  van,  while  I  lagged  in  the  rear, 
Condemned  to  Emiid  and  Five  Hundred  a  year. 

Too  little  encouraged  to  feel  self-assured, 

Too  dull  for  retorts,  and  too  timid  for  taunts ; 
By  daughters  and  nieces  I'm  barely  endured. 
And  mortally  hated  by  uncles  and  aunts. 
If  e'er  I  entangle 
A  girl  in  an  angle. 

Up  steps  some  Duenna,  love's  serpent  to  strangle ; 
"  Come  hither !  don't  talk  to  that  fellow,  my  dear. 
His  income  is  only  Five  Hundred  a  year." 

Without  tact  or  talents  to  get  into  ton, 

No  calling  to  stick  to,  no  trade  to  pursue : 
Thus  London,  hard  stepmother,  leaves  me  alone, 
With  little  to  live  on,  and  nothing  to  do. 
Could  I  row  a  life-boat, 
Make  a  boot  or  a  coat. 
Or  serve  in  a  silversmith's  shop,  and  devote 
My  days  to  employment,  my  evenings  to  cheer, 
I'd  gladly  give  up  my  Five  Hundred  a  year. 
12 


266  cniGWELL. 

CHIGWELL  ; 

OR,    "  PR^TERITOS    ANNOS." 

School  that,  in  Burford's  honoured  time, 
Reared  me  to  youth's  elastic  prime 

From  childhood's  airy  slumbers — 
School  at  whose  antique  shrine  I  bow, 
Sexagenarian  pilgrim  now, 

Accept  a  poet's  numbers. 

Those  yew-trees  never  seem  to  grow : 
The  village  stands  in  statu  quo, 

Without  a  single  new  house. 
But,  heavens,  how  shrunk  !  how  very  small! 
'Tis  a  mere  step  from  Urmstone's  wall, 

"Up  town,"  to  Morgan's  brewhouse. 

There,  in  yon  rough-cast  mansion,  dwelt 
Sage  Denham,  Galen's  son,  who  dealt 

In  squills  and  cream  of  tartar ; 
Fronting  the  room  where  now  I  dine, 
Beneath  thy  undulating  sign. 

Peak-bearded  Charles  the  Martyr ! 

Pent  in  by  beams  of  mouldering  wood 
The  parish  stocks  stand  where  they  stood — 

Did  ever  drunkard  rue  'em? 
I  dive  not  in  parochial  law, 
Yet  this  I  know — I  never  saw 

Two  legs  protruded  through  'em. 

Here,  to  the  right,  rose  hissing  proofs 
Of  skill  to  solder  horses'  hoofs, 
Formed  in  the  forge  of  Radley ; 


cniGWELL.  267 

And  there,  the  almshouses  beyond, 
Ilalf-waj  before  you  gain  the  Pond, 
Lived  Avr j-mouthed  Martin  Hadlej. 

Does  Philbj  still  exist  ?     Where  now 
Are  Willis,  Wilcox,  Green,  and  Howe? 

Ann  Wright,  the  smart  and  handy? 
Hillman  alone  a  respite  steals 
From  Fate ;  and — vice  Hadley — deals 

In  tea  and  sugar-candy. 

Can  I  my  school- friend  Belson  track  ? 
Where  hides  him  Chamberlainc  ?  where  Black, 

Intended  for  the  altar  ? 
Does  life-blood  circulate  in  Bates  ? 
Wliere  are  Jack  Cumberlege  and  Yates  ? 

The  Burrells,  Charles  and  Walter? 

There,  at  your  ink-bespattered  shrine, 
CorneHus  Nepos  first  was  mine ; 

Here  fagged  I  hard  at  Plutarch  : 
Found  Ovid's  mighty  pleasant  ways, 
While  Plato's  metaphysic  maze 

Appeared  like  Pluto — too  dark. 

Here  usher  Ireland  sat — and  there 
Stood  Bolton,  Cowal,  Parker,  Ware, 

INIedley,  the  pert  and  witty, 
And  here — crack  station,  near  the  fire — 
Sat  Roberts,  whose  Haymarket  su-e 

Sold  oil  and  spermaceti. 

Yon  pew,  the  gallery  below, 
Held  Nancy,  pride  of  Chigwell  Row, 
Who  set  all  hearts  a  dancinsr : 


268  CHIGWELL. 

In  bonnet  white,  divine  brunette, 

O'er  Burnet's  field  I  see  thee  yet, 

To  Sunday  church  advancing. 

Seek  -we  the  churchyard  ;  there  the  yew 
Shades  many  a  swain  whom  once  I  knew, 

Now  nameless  and  forgotten ; 
Here  towers  Sir  Edward's  marble  bier, 
Here  lies  stern  Vickery,  and  here, 

My  father's  friend  Tom  Cotton. 

The  common  herd  serenely  sleep, 
Turf-bound,  "in  many  a  mouldering  heap" 

Pent  in  by  bands  of  osier ; 
While  at  the  altar's  feet  is  laid 
The  founder  of  the  school,  arrayed 

In  mitre  and  in  crosier. 

'Tis  nature's  law  :  wave  urges  wave : 
The  cofiined  grandsire  seeks  the  grave. 

The  babe  that  feeds  by  suction. 
Finds  with  his  ancestor  repose  : 
Life  ebbs,  and  dissolution  sows 

The  seeds  of  reproduction. 

World,  in  thy  ever  busy  mart, 
I've  acted  no  unnoticed  part — 

Would  I  resume  it  ?  oh  no ! 
Four  acts  are  done,  the  jest  grows  stale ; 
The  waning  lamps  burn  dim  and  pale. 

And  reason  asks — Cid  bono? 

I've  met  with  no  "  affliction  sore ;" 
But  hold!  methinks,  "long  time  I  bore;" 
Here  ends  my  lucubration — 


CIIIGWELL   REVISITED.  269 

Content,  with  David's  son,  to  know, 
That  all  is  vanity  below, 
Tho'  not  quite  all  vexation. 


CHIGWELL   REVISITED. 

Deputed  by  the  tuneful  Nine, 
A  pilgrim  to  an  Eastern  shrine, 

I  once  again  out-sally ; 
Again  to  Chigwell  wander  back, 
And,  more  excursive,  aim  to  track 

Each  neighbouring  hill  and  valley. 

Strange  that  a  village  should  survive, 
For  ten  years  multiplied  by  five, 

The  same  in  size  and  figure. 
Knowing  not  plenty  nor  distress — 
If  foiled  by  fortune,  why  no  less? 


Say,  why  has  population  got 
Speed-bound  upon  this  level  spot, 

Undamaged  by  profusion  ? 
A  tyro,  I  the  question  ask — 
Be  thine,  Miss  Martineau,  the  task 

To  tender  the  solution. 

I  pass  the  Vicar's  white  abode, 

And,  pondering,  gain  the  upward  road, 

By  busy  thoughts  o'erladcn, 
To  where  "The  pride  of  Chigwell-row" 
Still  lives — a  handsome  widow  now, 

As  erst  a  lovely  maiden. 


270  CHIGWELL   REVISITED. 

Here  hills  and  dales  and  distant  Thame, 
And  forest  glens,  green  proof  proclaim 

Of  Nature's  lavish  bounty, 
And  dub  thee,  lofty  region,  still 
Surrey's  tall  foe,  the  Richmond  Hill 

Of  this  our  eastern  county. 

Diverging  from  the  road,  the  sod 
I  tread  that  once  a  boy  I  trod. 

With  pace  not  quite  so  nimble — 
But  where 's  the  May-pole  next  the  lane? 
Who  dared  to  banish  from  the  plain 

That  wreathed-encircled  symbol  ? 

Abridge,  her  tank,  and  waterfall, 
The  path  beneath  Sir  Eliab's  wall, 

I  once  again  am  stepping  ; 
Beyond  that  round  we  rarely  stirred, 
LouGHTON  we  saw.  but  only  heard 

Of  Ongar  and  of  Epping. 

Seek  we  "the  river's"'  grassy  verge, 
Where  all  were  destined  to  immerge, 

Or  willing  or  abhorrent ; 
I  view  the  well-known  "  Mill-hole"  still- 
But  time  has  dwindled  to  a  rill 

What  seemed,  of  yore,  a  torrent. 

Here,  fell  destroyer,  many  a  wound 
The  woodman's  axe  has  dealt  around; 

Lee  Grove  in  death  reposes. 
Yet  while  her  dryads  seek  their  tombs, 
The  miller's  moated  garden  blooms 

With  all  its  wonted  roses. 


CIIIGWELL   REVISITED.  271 

Tlicro,  in  yon  copse,  near  Palmer's  Gate, 
Reclined,  I  mourned  my  hapless  fate, 

Zerbino  amoroso, 
Glad  to  elope  from  both  the  schools, 
"The  world  shut  out,"  intent  on  Hoole'3 

"  Orlando  Furioso." 

Twilight  steals  on  :  I  wander  back ; 
The  listless  ploughman's  homeward  tracji:, 

Again  in  thought  I  follow  ; 
Or  sit  the  antique  porch  within. 
Awed  by  the  belfry's  deafening  din, 

And  watch  the  wheelmg  swallow. 

Chigwell,  I  cease  thy  charms  to  sing — 
Time  bears  me  elsewhere  on  his  wing ; 

Perhaps,  ere  long,  the  poet, 
Who  now,  in  mental  vigour  bold, 
Parades,  erect,  thy  churchyard  mould, 

May  sleep,  supine,  below  it. 

So  let  it  be :  Time,  take  thy  course  ; 
Let  dotards  with  tenacious  force 

Cling  to  this  waning  planet — 
rd  rather  soar  to  death's  abode 
On  eagle  wings,  than  "  live  a  toad" 

Pent  in  a  block  of  granite. 

Grant  me  the  happier  lot  of  him, 
Elate  in  hope,  alert  in  limb, 

"Who  hurls  Bellona's  jav'lin  ; 
Fame's  laurel  ardent  to  entwine, 
Dares  death  above  the  countermine. 

And  meets  him  on  the  rav'lin. 


272  THE   EMPEROR   ALEXANDER. 

I  fear  not,  Fate,  thj  pendant  shears — 
There  are  who  pray  for  length  of  years ; 

To  them,  not  me,  allot  'em : 
Life's  cup  is  nectar  at  the  brink, 
Midway  a  palatable  drink, 

And  wormwood  at  the  bottom. 


THE  EMPEROR  ALEXANDER. 

Air. — "  Over  the  Water  to  Charley." 

I've  seen  (lucky  me !)  what  you  all  want  to  see — 

Good  people,  give  ear  to  my  sonnet — 
I've  gazed  in  the  Ring  on  the  Muscovy  King, 

And  I've  peeped  at  the  Oldenburg  bonnet ; 
At  his  sister's  approach  to  get  into  her  coach, 

Her  brother  steps  forward  to  hand  her, 
What  ecstacies  throb  in  the  hearts  of  the  mob, 

With  huzza  for  the  great  Alexander  ! 

On  bracelet  and  seal  behold  his  profile 

At  the  shop  too  of  Laurie  and  Whittle, 
Nat  Lee,  hold  your  prate,  Alexander  the  Great 

Is  now  Alexander  the  Little  ! 
In  Lord  William's  dell,  near  the  Pulteney  hotel, 

What  multitudes  every  day  wander  ! 
They  scamper  like  imps  to  indulge  in  a  glimpse 

Of  the  mighty  renowned  Alexander. 

Poor  Madame  De  Stael  is  quite  pushed  to  the  wall, 
ChassSd  by  the  Czar  and  the  Duchess, 

And  since  his  retreat,  even  Louis  dix-liuit 
Must  walk  on  oblivion's  crutches. 


THE   EMPEROR   ALEXANDER.  27S 

Clerks  run  from  tlicir  quills,  harbcrdashcrs  their  tills, 

John  Bull  is  a  great  goosey  gander ; 
Even  Kean  is  forgot,  wo  are  all  on  the  trot 

For  a  gaze  upon  great  Alexander. 

"Have  you  seen  him 's"  the  talk,  Piccadilly's  the  walk, 

I  suppose  since  it  is  so,  it  must  be, 
And  nobody  thinks  of  that  musical  sphinx 

Catalani,  or  great  Doctor  Busby. 
Anxiety  burns  every  bosom  by  turns 

To  flirt  with  this  royal  Philander, 
And  happy  the  wight  who  can  utter  at  night — 

'•  This  morning  I  saw  Alexander.'' 

He  dresses  with  taste,  he  is  small  in  the  waist, 

I  beheld  him  Avith  Bluchcr  and  PlatofF, 
The  Hetman  appears  with  his  cap  on  his  ears, 

But  the  Emperor  rides  with  his  hat  off: 
He  sits  on  his  throne  with  a  leg  in  each  zone, 

No  monarch  on  earth  can  be  grander ; 
Half  an  hour  after  dark,  the  rails  of  the  Park 

Are  scaled  to  behold  Alexander. 

^Yhen  the  town  was  illumed,  how  his  residence  bloomed, 

With  Lamps  to  the  balcony  fitted. 
I'm  told  his  Cossacks  made  eleven  attacks 

To  drink  up  the  oil  ere  they  lit  it ! 
The  Chronicle  says  that  he  laces  in  stays — ■ 

Perhaps  this  is  nothing  but  slander ; 
Since  his  stay  is  not  long  I  will  shorten  my  song 

With  huzza  for  the  great  Alexander  ! 
12* 


274      THE  GRETNA  GREEN  BLACKSMITH. 

THE  GRETNA  GREEN  BLACKSMITH. 

Air.—''  The  Sprig  of  Sliillelali." 

Though  my  face  is  all  smutty  not  fit  to  be  seen. 
I'm  the  tinkering  parson  of  Gretna  Green, 

With  my  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 
To  look  like  the  ladies  is  always  my  plan, 
So  I  roll  up  my  sleeves  as  high  as  I  can, 
In  spite  of  my  vice,  and  though  I  am  lame, 
I  make  the  sparks  fly,  and  myself  raise  a  flame, 

With  my  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 

In  chaises-and-four  lovers  fly  to  my  cot, 
With  folly  remembered,  and  prudence  forgot, 

With  a  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 
Down  hill,  helter-skelter  they  fearlessly  move, 
For  who  ever  thinks  of  a  hind  wheel  in  love  ? 
So,  while  the  young  lady  her  passion  reveals, 
I  tack  them  together — then  hammer  the  wheels. 

With  my  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 

''  Oh  dear,"  says  Miss  Lucy,  a  delicate  fright  in, 
"  I  was  all  over  rust  till  they  took  me  to  Brighton, 

With  my  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Parson,  you'll  find  me  no  fool, 
I'm  a  great  deal  too  old  to  be  sent  back  to  school ; 
Captain  Shark  of  the  Fourth  is  the  man  I  adore. 
My  Pa  is  a  bear,  and  my  Ma  is  a  bore. 

With  their  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail." 

But,  alas !  ten  to  one,  ere  they  got  back  to  town, 
My  lady  is  up,  and  the  carriage  breaks  down, 
With  a  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 


MATRIMONIAL   DUET.  27. 

Of  tears  my  young  Madam  dissolves  in  a  flood, 
Her  head  in  the  clouds,  and  her  feet  in  the  mud, 
Till  both  recollecting  the  cause  of  the  evil, 
Wish  carriage,  and  marriage,  and  me  at  the  devil, 
With  my  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 

I  can  make  a  jack-chain,  a  pattern,  a  knife, 
I  forge  heavy  fetters  for  husband  and  wife. 

With  my  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 
Here  Venus  and  Vulcan  their  compact  renew, 
A  partner  for  life  or  a  tenpenny  screw, 
A  wedlock,  a  padlock,  I  do  not  care  which — 
So  the  tinker  of  Gretna  is  sure  to  grow  rich, 

With  his  rang,  tang,  hammer  and  nail. 


MATRIMONIAL   DUET. 

Air. — "  The  Pretty  Maid  of  Derby." 
HE. 

When  we  first  were  man  and  wife, 

And  you  swore  to  love  for  life. 
We  were  quoted  as  a  model,  we  were  quite  a  show, 

Yes,  we  tUe-<)-tHe  were  seen, 

Like  King  William  and  his  Queen  ; 
What  a  jewel  of  a  wife  was  Mrs.  John  Prevut ! 

SHE. 

Ay,  once  I  clave  to  thee,  man. 

Like  Baucis  to  Philemon, 
Now,  if  I  go  to  Brighton,  you  're  at  Bath  I  know ; 

Like  the  pair  who  tell  the  weather, 

We  are  never  out  together, 
One  at  home,  the  other  gadding,  ]\Ir.  John  Prevot. 


276  OWEN    OF   LANARK. 

HE. 

If  a  lion 's  to  be  seen, 

Old  Blucher — ;Mr.  Kean, 
You  order  out  the  carriage,  and  away  you  go 

With  that  gossip,  Mrs.  Jones ; 

How  you  rattle  o'er  the  stones, 
You  've  no  mercy  on  the  horses,  Mrs.  John  Prevot 

SHE. 

With  Madeira,  Port,  and  Sherry, 

When  you  make  what  you  call  merry, 
And  sit  in  sober  sadness,  are  you  sober  ?  No ! 

With  that  horrid  Major  Rock, 

It  is  always  twelve  o'clock, 
Ere  you  tumble  up  to  coffee,  Mr.  John  Prevot. 

BOTH. 

Our  vicar,  Doctor  Jervis, 

When  he  read  the  marriage  service, 
United  us  for  better  and  for  worse — Heigh-ho  ! 

Since  the  worse  may  turn  to  better. 

And  we  cannot  break  our  fetter. 
Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  Mr.  (Mrs.)  John  Prevot. 


OWEN  OF  LANARK. 

Welcome,  welcome,  mighty  stranger, 

To  our  transatlantic  shore  : 
Anchored  safe  from  seas  of  danger, 

All  our  fears  and  doubts  are  o'er. 
Sable  Jews  and  flaxen  Quakers 

Imitate  no  more  the  shark  ; 
Wealth  lies  planted  out  in  acres — 

Welcome,  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 


OWEN   OF   LANARK.  277 

Parallelograms  of  virtue, 

Haunts  from  human  frailtj  free, 
Squares  that  vice  can  ne'er  do  hurt  to, 

Circles  of  New  Harmony  : 
Schemes  that  blossom  while  we  view  'em, 

Swamp  and  prairie  changed  to  park  : 
Mcum  melting  into  tuum — 

Wondrous  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 

All  New  York,  in  mind  and  body. 

Feels  thy  influence,  and  adores ; 
Bitters,  Sangaree,  and  Toddy 

Fly  her  fifteen  hundred  stores. 
Big  Ohio  now  looks  bigger, 

Freedom  flms  the  kindred  spark  : 
Boss  no  longer  scowls  on  nigger — 

Welcome,  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 

Lazarus  lies  down  with  Dives, 

Rich  and  poor  no  more  are  seen ; 
Baltimore  our  common  hive  is  ; 

Busy  bees,  and  thou  their  Queen. 
Uncle  Ben  lays  down  his  rifle. 

While  his  Nephew — prone  to  bark — 
Thanks  his  stars  for  "that  'ere  trifle," 

Mighty  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 

Failing  schemers,  retrograders, 

Lawyers  fattenmg  on  strife. 
Grim  backwoodsmen,  bankrupt  traders. 

Squatters  brandishing  the  knife : 
Busy  Banks  their  Cents  up  summing 

Many  a  Master,  many  a  Clerk, 
Drop  their  dollars  at  thy  coming, 

Mighty  Owen  of  Lanark ! 


278       THE  TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS. 

Foe  to  titled  Sirs  and  Madams, 

Prone  Law's  blunders  to  redress, 
Washington  nor  Quincj  Adams 

Ever  saw  thy  like,  I  guess. 
Let  John  Bull's  polluted  pages 

Dub  thee  staring,  dub  thee  stark : 
Solon  of  succeeding  Ages, 

Welcome,  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 
Vast,  I  calculate,  thy  plan  is, 

Born  to  soar  where  others  creep ; 
Lofty  as  the  Alleghanies, 

As  the  Mississippi  deep. 
As  the  German  Brothers  mingle. 

Prone  to  sing  "hark  follow  hark," 
All  our  States,  through  dell  and  dingle, 

Hail  thee,  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 
"I've  an  item."  Boss  and  Peasant 

Feel  quite  mighty  where  you  stray ; 
Competence  is  omnipresent. 

Poverty  "slick  right  away." 
See  our  bipeds,  "like  all  natur," 

Climbing  up  thy  friendly  ark, 
Dub  thee  Sovereign  Legislator, 

Welcome,  Owen  of  Lanark  ! 


THE  TRITON  OF  THE  MINNOWS. 

"  Why  don't  you  strike  out  something  new?' 
Cried  fair  Euphemia,  heavenly  blue 

Of  eye,  as  well  as  stocking ! 
"If  shilly-shally  long  you  stand. 
You'll  feel  Time's  enervating  hand 

Your  second  cradle  rocking." 


THE   TRITON   OF   THE   MINNOWS.  279 

« 

"Ah,  ^ladam !  cease  your  bard  to  blame ; 
I  view  the  pedestal  of  Fame, 

But  at  its  base  I  falter : 
On  every  step,  terrific,  stand 
A  troop  of  Poets,  pen  in  hand. 

To  scare  me  from  her  altar. 

I  first  essayed  to  write  in  prose, 
Plot,  humor,  character  disclose, 

And  ransack  heaths  and  hovels : 
But,  when  I  sat  me  down  to  write, 
I  sighed  to  find  that  I  had  quite 

0"erlookcd  the  Scottish  Novels," 

"Well,"  cried  Euphemia,  with  a  smile, 
"  Miss  Austin's  gone :  assume  her  style ; 

Turn  playmate  of  Apollo — 
But,  hold !  how  heedless  the  remark ! 
Miss  Austin's  gone  — but  Mansfield  Park 

And  Emma  scorn  to  follow." 

A  bolder  flight  I'd  fain  essay. 
The  Manners  of  the  East  portray. 

That  field  is  rich  and  spacious : 
Greece,  Turkey,  Egypt — what  a  scope  ! 
There  too  I'm  foiled — why  will  not  Hope 

Un- write  his  Anastasius  ! 

Eogers,  in  calm  and  even  sense, 
Byron,  in  ecstacy  intense, 

Make  my  dim  flame  burn  denser : 
Shall  I  in  Fashion's  corps  enlist, 
A  light  gay  epigrammatist  ? 

No  ! — there  I'm  marred  by  Spenser. 


280  THE    TRITON    OF   THE    MINNOWS. 

Thus  "  cribb'd  and  cabin' d"—"  Poor  indeed  !' 
I  cantered  on  my  winged  steed 

Towards  scenes  of  toil  and  tillage  : 
But  there,  alas  !  mj  weary  hack 
Hit  on  another  beaten  track, 

Encountering  Crabbe's  Village. 

Two  pathways  still  to  me  belong, 
Come,  poignant  Satire !  amorous  Song  I 

Beware,  ye  state  empirics  ! — 
Anticipated  !  hideous  bore ! 
I  quite  forgot  Hibernian  INIoore, 

His  Fudges,  and  his  Lyincs. 

Great  Jove  !  compassionate  my  lot ! 
On  Campbell,  Byron,  Moore,  and  Scott, 

Point  thy  celestial  cannon  : 
Sew  Crabbe  and  Rogers  in  a  sack. 
Tie  Hope  and  Spenser  back  to  back, 

And  souse  them  in  the  Shannon. 

So  shall  I,  with  majestic  tread, 
My  doughty  predecessors  dead, 

Up  Pindus  stretch  my  sinews : 
And  leave  all  lesser  bards  behind, 
"The  one-eyed  monarch  of  the  blind," 

"  The  Triton  of  the  Minnows." 


THE   HAUNCH   OF   VENISON.  281 


THE  nAUNCn  OF  VENISON. 

At  Number  One  dwelt  Captain  Drew, 
George  Benson  dwelt  at  Number  Two, 

(The  street  we'll  not  now  mention  :) 
The  latter  stunned  the  King's  Bench  bar, 
The  former  being  lamed  in  war. 

Sang  small  upon  a  pension. 

Tom  Blewit  knew  them  both  :  than  he 
None  deeper  in  the  mystery 

Of  culinary  knowledge ; 
From  turtle  soup  to  Stilton  cheese. 
Apt  student,  taking  his  degrees 

In  Mrs.  Rundell's  college. 

Benson  to  dine  invited  Tom  : 
Proud  of  an  invitation  from 

A  host  who  "  spread"  so  nicely, 
Tom  answered,  ere  the  ink  was  dry, 
"  Extremely  happy — come  on  Fri- 

Day  next,  at  six  precisely." 

Blewit,  with  expectation  fraught. 
Drove  up  at  six,  each  savoury  thought 

Ideal  turbot  rich  in  : 
But,  ere  he  reached  the  winning-post, 
He  saw  a  haunch  of  ven'son  roast 

Down  in  the  next-door  kitchen. 

'•  Iley  !  zounds !  what 's  this  ?  a  haunch  at  Drews  ? 
I  must  drop  in;  I  can't  refuse; 
To  pass  were  downright  treason : 


282  THE   HAUXCH    OF   VENISON. 

To  cut  Ned  Benson 's  not  quite  staunch ; 
But  the  provoccative — a  haunch ! 
Zounds  !  it 's  the  first  this  season. 

"  Ven'son,  thou  'rt  mine !  I'll  talk  no  more." 
Then,  rapping  thrice  at  Benson's  door, 

"  John,  I'm  in  such  a  hurry ; 
Do  tell  your  master  that  my  aunt 
Is  paralytic,  quite  aslant, 

I  must  be  off  for  Surrey." 

Now  Tom  at  next  door  makes  a  din : 

"Is  Captain  Drew  at  home?" — "  Walk  in." 

"  Drew,  how  d'ye  do?"—-'  What !  Blewit !" 
"  Yes,  I — you  've  asked  me,  many  a  day, 
To  drop  in,  in  a  quiet  way. 

So  now  I'm  come  to  do  it." 

"I'm  very  glad  you  have,"  said  Drew, 
"I've  nothing  but  an  Irish  stew" — ■ 

Quoth  Tom,  (aside,)  "  No  matter  ; 
'Twont  do— my  stomach  's  up  to  that — 
'Twill  lie  by,  till  the  lucid  flit 

Comes  quiv'ring  on  the  platter." 

"You  see  your  dinner,  Tom,"  Drew  cried. 
"  No,  but  I  don't  though,"  Tom  replied; 

"  I  smoked  below." — "  What?" — "  Ven'son— 
A  haunch." — "  Oh !  true,  it  is  not  mine ; 
My  neighbour  has  some  friends  to  dine." 

"  Your  neighbour  !  who  ?" — "  George  Benson. 

"His  chimney  smoked;   the  scene  to  change, 
I  let  him  have  my  kitchen  range, 
While  his  was  newly  polished ; 


ODE   TO   SENTIMENT. 

The  vcn'son  you  observed  below 
Went  home  just  half  an  hour  ago ; 
I  guess  it 's  no^Y  demolished. 

''  Tom,  why  that  look  of  doubtful  dreaxi? 
Come,  help  yourself  to  salt  and  bread, 

Don't  sit  with  hands  and  knees  up ; 
But  dine,  for  once,  oflf  Irish  stew, 
And  read  the  '  Dog  and  Shadow'  through, 

When  next  you  open  ^sop." 


ODE  TO  SENTBIENT. 


Daughter  of  dulness !  canting  dame ! 

Thou  night-mare  on  the  breast  of  joy, 
Whose  drowsy  morals,  still  the  same, 

The  stupid  soothe,  the  gay  annoy  ; 
Soft  cradled  in  thy  sluggish  arms, 
E'en  footpads  prate  of  guilt's  alarms. 
And  pig-tailed  sailors,  sadly  queer. 
Affect  the  melting  mood,  and  drop  the  pitying  tear. 

When  first  to  tickle  Britain's  nose 

Hugh  Kelly  raised  his  leaden  quill. 
Thy  poppies  lent  the  wished  repose. 

And  bade  the  gaping  town  be  still. 
Poor  Comedy !  thine  opiate  lore 
With  patience  many  a  day  she  bore. 
Till  Goldsmith  all  thy  hopes  dismay'd. 
And  drove  thee  from  the  stage  by  Tony  Lumpkin's  aid. 

Scared  by  thy  lanthorn  visage,  flee 
Thalia's  offspring  light  and  merry, 


284  ODE   TO    SENTIMENT. 

Loud  laughter,  wit,  and  repartee, 

And  leave  us  moralising  Cherry. 
They  fly,  and  carry  in  their  line, 
Grimaldi,  Goose,  and  Columbine, 
To  Sadler's  Wells  by  Dibdin  taken, 
With  him  they  vow  to  dwell,  nor  find  themselves  for- 
saken. 

Soliloquy,  with  clamorous  tongue, 

That  brings  the  Lord  knows  what  to  view, 

And,  Affectation,  pert  and  young, 

Swearing  to  love — the  Lord  knows  who ; 

Still  round  the  midnight  caldron  caper, 

Warm  Charity  with  Newland's  paper, 

And  baby  Bounty  not  unwilling 
To  give  to  mother  dear  her  new  Kin(j  George  s  shilling. 

0  gently  o'er  the  modern  stage, 

Fair  preacher,  raise  thy  deafening  din ! 

Not  with  the  metaphoric  rage 

That  guides  the  sword  of  Harlequin, 

(As  erst  thou  didst  the  town  amuse,) 

With  tender  bailiffs,  generous  Jews, 

Socratic  soldiers,  praying  sailors, 
Chaste  harlots,  lettered  clowns,  and  duel-fighting  tailors. 

Forbear  thy  handkerchief  of  bruie. 

Some  gleams  of  merriment  admit ; 
Be  tears  in  moderation  thine. 

To  water,  not  to  drown,  the  pit. 
But  if,  with  streaming  eye  askew, 
Thou  still  wilt  blubber  five  acts  through, 
Have  pity  on  a  son  of  rhyme. 
Usurp  the  play — 'tis  your's — but  spare  the  pantomime. 


REJECTED   ADDRESSES! 


THE  KEff  TllEATKUM  rOETAEDM. 


BY 

JAMES    SMITH    AND    HORACE    SMITH. 


'Fired  that  the  Hotibe  reject  himl— 'Sdeath,  VVi  pri^U  it. 
And  shame  the  Foolal" 


"  I  think  the  '  Rejected  Addresses'  by  far  the  best  thing  of  the  kind  since  '  The 
RoUiad,'  and  wish  you  had  published  them.  Tell  the  author  '  I  forgive  hiia, 
were  he  twenty  times  over  our  satirist;'  and  think  his  imitations  not  at  all 
inferior  to  the  famous  ones  of  Hawkins  Browne." 

LosD  Byeon  to  Me.  Mueeay,  Oct.  19,  1812. 

"  I  like  the  volume  of  '  Rejected  Addresses'  better  and  better." 

Loud  Bybon  to  Me.  Mueeay,  Oct.  23,  1812. 

"  I  take  the  '  Rejected  Addresses'  to  be  the  very  best  imitations  (and  often  of 
difficult  originals)  that  ever  were  made :  and  considering  their  great  extent  and 
variety,  to  indicate  a  talent,  to  which  I  do  not  know  where  to  look  for  a  parallel. 
Some  few  of  them  descend  to  the  level  of  parodies ;  but  by  far  the  greater  part 
are  of  a  much  higher  description." 

LoED  Jetfeey  (in  1843),  Note  in  Essays,  iv.  470, 


PREFACE. 


Ok  the  liih.  of  August,  1812,  the  following  advertisement  ap- 
peared in  most  of  the  daily  papers : — 

"  Rebuilding  of  Drury-lane  Tlieatre. 

"  The  Committee  are  desu'ous  of  promoting  a  free  and  fair  com- 
petition for  an  Address  to  be  spoken  upon  the  opening  of  the 
Theatre,  which  will  take  place  on  the  10th  of  October  next. 
They  have,  therefore,  thought  fit  to  announce  to  the  public,  that 
ihvj  wiU  be  glad  to  receive  any  such  compositions,  addressed  to 
their  Secretary,  at  the  Treasury-office,  in  Drury-lane,  on  or  before 
the  10th  of  September,  sealed  up,  with  a  distinguishing  word, 
number,  or  motto,  on  the  cover,  corresponding  with  the  inscrip- 
tion on  a  separate  sealed  paper,  containing  the  name  of  the  author, 
which  will  not  be  opened  unless  containing  the  name  of  the  suc- 
cessful candidate." 

Upon  the  propriety  of  tliis  plan,  men's  minds  were,  as  they 
usually  are  upon  matters  of  moment,  much  divided.  Some 
thought  it  a  fair  promise  of  the  future  intention  of  the  Committee 
to  abolish  that  phalanx  of  authors  who  usurp  the  stage,  to  the 
exclusion  of  a  large  assortment  of  dramatic  talent  blusliing  unseen 
in  the  back-ground;  while  others  contended,  that  the  scheme 
would  prevent  men  of  real  eminence  from  descending  into  an 
amphitheatre  in  which  all  Grub-street  (that  is  to  say,  all  London 
and  Westminster)  would  be  arrayed  against  them.  The  event 
has  proved  both  parties  to  be  in  a  degree  right,  and  in  a  degree 
wrong.  One  hundred  and  twelve  Addresses  have  been  sent  in, 
each  sealed,  and  signed,  and  mottoed,  "  as  per  order,"  some  writ- 
ten by  men  of  great,  some  by  men  of  httle,  and  some  by  men  of 
no  talent. 

[  •  To  the  First  Edition  published  iu  October,  1S12] 


288  PREFACE. 

Many  of  the  public  prints  have  censured  the  taste  of  the  Com- 
mittee, in  thus  contracting  for  Addresses  as  they  would  for  nails — 
by  the  gross ;  but  it  is  surprising  that  none  should  have  censured 
their  temerity.  One  hundred  and  eleven  of  the  Addresses  must, 
of  course,  be  unsuccessful :  to  each  of  the  authors,  thus  infallibly 
classed  with  the  genus  irritahile,  it  would  be  very  hard  to  deny 
six  stanch  friends,  who  consider  liis  the  best  of  all  possible 
Addresses,  and  whose  tongues  will  be  as  ready  to  laud  Mm,  as  to 
hiss  liis  adversary.  These,  with  the  jjotent  aid  of  the  bard  him- 
self, make  seven  foes  per  address ;  and  thus  will  be  created  seven 
hundred  and  seventy  seven  implacable  auditors,  prepared  to  con- 
demn the  strauis  of  Apollo  himself — a  band  of  adversaries  which 
no  prudent  manager  would  think  of  exasperating. 

But,  leaving  the  Committee  to  encounter  the  responsibility 
they  have  iucurred,  the  pubhc  have  at  least  to  thank  them  for 
ascertaining  and  establishing  one  point,  wliich  might  otherwise 
have  admitted  of  controversy.  When  it  is  considered  that  many 
amateur  writers  have  been  discouraged  from  becoming  com- 
petitors, and  that  few,  if  any,  of  the  professional  autliors  can 
afford  to  Avrite  for  notliing,  and,  of  course,  have  not  been  can- 
didates for  the  honorary  prize  of  Drury-lane,  we  may  confidently 
conclude  that,  as  far  as  regards  number,  the  present  is  undoubt  - 
edly  the  Augustan  age  of  EngUsh  poetry.  Whether  or  not  this 
distinction  will  be  extended  to  the  quality  of  its  productions, 
must  be  decided  at  the  tribunal  of  posterity ;  though  the  natural 
anxiety  of  our  authors  on  this  score  ought  to  be  considerably 
diminished  when  they  reflect  how  few  Avill,  in  aU  probabihty,  be 
had  up  for  judgment. 

It  is  not  necessary  for  the  Editor  to  mention  the  manner  in 
which  he  became  possessed  of  this  "fair  sample  of  the  present 
state  of  poetry  in  Great  Britain."  It  was  his  first  intention  to 
pubhsh  the  whole ;  but  a  little  reflection  convinced  him  that,  by 
so  doing,  he  might  depress  the  good,  without  elevating  the  bad. 
He  has  therefore  culled  what  had  the  appearance  of  flowers,  from 
what  possessed  the  reality  of  weeds,  and  is  extremely  sorry  that, 
in  so  doing,  he  has  diminished  liis  collection  to  twenty-one. 
Those  which  he  has  rejected  may  possibly  make  their  appearance 
in  a  separate  volume,  or  they  may  be  admitted  as  volunteers  in 
the  files  of  some  of  the  newspapers ;  or,  at  all  events,  they  are 
sure  of  being  received  among  the  awkward  squad  of  th^;  Mag- 


azLnes.  In  genorul,  thoy  bear  a  close  resemblance  to  each  other ; 
thirty  of  them  contain  extravagant  compliments  to  the  immortal 
Wellington  and  the  indefatigable  Whitbread ;  and,  as  the  last- 
mentioned  gentleman  is  said  to  dislilco  praise  in  the  exact  propor- 
tion in  -vvliieh  he  deserves  it,  these  laudatory  writers  have  prob- 
ably been  only  building  a  wall  against  which  they  might  run  their 
own  heads. 

The  Editor  here  begs  leave  to  advance  a  few  words  in  behalf 
of  that  useful  and  much  abused  bird  the  Phoenix;  and  in  so 
doing,  he  is  biassed  by  no  partiahty,  as  he  assures  the  reader  he 
not  only  never  saw  one,  but  {mirahile  dictu  !)  never  caged  one,  in 
a  simile,  in  the  whole  course  of  Ms  life.  Not  less  than  sixty-nine 
of  the  competitors  have  invoked  the  aid  of  this  native  of  Arabia ; 
but  as,  from  their  manner  of  using  him  when  they  caught  him, 
he  docs  not  by  any  means  appear  to  have  been  a  native  of  Arabia 
Felix,  the  Editor  has  left  the  proprietors  to  treat  with  Mr.  Polito, 
and  refused  to  receive  this  rara  avis,  or  black  swan,  into  the  col- 
lection. One  exception  occurs,  in  wliich  the  admirable  treatment 
of  tliis  feathered  incombustible  entitles  the  author  to  great  praise : 
tliat  Address  has  been  preserved,  and  in  the  ensuing  pages  takes 
the  lead,  to  wliich  its  dignity  entitles  it. 

Perhaps  the  reason  why  several  of  the  subjoined  productions 
of  the  Mus^  LoNDiNENSES  have  failed  of  selection,  may  be  dis' 
covered  in  their  being  penned  in  a  metre  unusual  upon  occasions 
of  this  sort,  and  in  their  not  being  written  with  that  attention  to 
stage  eflFect,  the  want  of  which,  hke  want  of  manners  in  the  con- 
cerns of  life,  is  more  prcjuchcial  than  a  deficiency  of  talent.  There 
is  an  art  of  wiiting  for  the  Theatre,  technically  called  touch  and 
go,  which  is  indispensable  when  Ave  consider  the  small  quantum 
of  patience  which  so  motley  an  assemblage  as  a  London  audience 
can  be  expected  to  aflbrd.  All  the  contributors  have  been  very 
exact  in  sending  their  initials  and  mottoes.  Those  belonging  to 
the  present  collection  have  been  carefully  preserved,  and  each 
have  been  aC&xed  to  its  respective  poem.  The  letters  that  ac- 
companied the  Addresses  having  been  honourably  destroyed 
unopened,  it  is  impossible  to  state  the  real  authors  with  any  cer- 
tainty ;  but  the  ingenious  reader,  after  comparing  the  initials  with 
the  motto,  and  both  with  the  poem,  may  form  his  own  con- 
clusions. 

The  Editor  does  not  anticipate  any  disapprobation  from  thus 
13 


290  PREFACE. 

giving  publicity  to  a  small  portion  of  the  Rejected  Addresses ;  for 
unless  he  is  widely  mistaken  in  assigning  the  respective  authors, 
the  fame  of  each  individual  is  established  on  much  too  firm  a 
basis  to  be  shaken  by  so  trifling  and  evanescent  a  publication  as 
the  present : 

neque  ego  iUi  detrahere  ausim 


Hserentem  capiti  multd  cum  laude  coronam. 

Of  the  numerous  pieces  already  sent  to  tlie  Committee  for  per- 
formance, he  has  only  availed  himself  of  three  vocal  Travesties, 
which  he  has  selected,  not  for  their  merit,  but  simply  for  their 
brevity.  Above  one  hundred  spectacles,  melodramas,  operas,  and 
pantomimes,  have  been  transmitted,  besides  the  two  first  acts  of 
one  legitimate  comedy.  Some  of  these  evince  considerable 
smartness  of  manual  dialogue,  and  several  repartees  of  chairs, 
tables,  and  other  inanimate  wits ;  but  tlie  authors  seem  to  have 
forgotten  that  in  the  new  Drury-lane  the  audience  can  hear  as 
well  as  see.  Of  late  our  theatres  have  been  so  constructed,  that 
John  Bull  has  been  compelled  to  have  very  long  ears  or  none  at 
all ;  to  keep  them  dangling  about  his  skull  hke  discarded  servants, 
while  his  eyes  were  gazing  at  pieballs  and  elephants,  or  else  to 
stretch  them  out  to  an  asmine  length  to  catch  the  congenial 
sound  of  braying  trumpets.  An  auricular  revolution  is,  we  trust, 
about  to  take  place ;  and  as  many  people  have  been  much  puzzled 
to  define  the  meaning  of  this  new  era,  of  which  we  have  heard  so 
much,  we  venture  to  pronounce,  that  as  far  as  regards  Drury-lane 
Theatre,  the  new  era  means  the  reign  of  ears.  If  the  past  affords 
any  pledge  for  the  future,  we  may  conficntly  expect  from  the 
Committee  of  that  House  every  thing  that  can  be  accomplished 
by  the  union  of  taste  and  assiduity. 

["  Wg  have  no  conjecture  to  offer  as  to  the  anonymous  author  of  this  amusing 
little  volume.  He  who  is  such  a  master  of  disguises  may  easily  be  supposed  to 
have  been  successful  in  concealing  himself,  and,  with  the  power  of  assuming  so 
many  styles,  is  not  likely  to  be  detected  by  his  own.  We  should  guess,  however, 
that  he  had  not  written  a  great  deal  in  his  own  character— that  his  natural  style 
was  neither  very  lofty  nor  very  grave — and  that  he  rather  indulges  a  partiality 
for  puns  and  verbal  pleasantries.  We  marvel  why  he  has  shut  out  Campbell  and 
Rogers  from  his  theatre  of  living  poets,  and  confidently  expect  to  have  our 
curioiiity,  in  this  and  all  other  particulars,  very  speedily  gratified,  when  the 
applause  of  the  country  shall  induce  him  to  take  off  his  mask."] 

LoKD  Jeffeey,  Edinburgh  Review  for  Xov.  1S12. 


PREFACE 


THE    EIGnTEENTn    EDITION* 


In  the  present  publlsliing  era,  ■wlicn  books  are  like  the  multi- 
tudinous waves  of  the  advancing  sea,  some  of  which  make  no 
impression  whatever  upon  the  sand,  wliilc  the  superficial  traces 
left,  by  others  are  destined  to  be  perpetually  obliterated  by  their 
successors,  ahnost  as  soon  as  they  are  found,  the  authors  of  the 
Rejected  Addresses  may  well  feel  flattered,  after  a  lapse  of  twenty 
years,  and  the  sale  of  seventeen  large  editions,  in  receiving  an 
application  to  write  a  Preface  to  a  new  and  more  handsome  im- 
pression. In  diminution,  however,  of  any  overweening  vanity 
which  they  might  be  disposed  to  indulge  on  tliis  occasion,  they 
cannot  but  admit  the  truth  of  the  remark  made  by  a  particularly 
candid  and  good-natured  friend,  who  kindly  reminded  them, 
tliat  if  their  Uttle  work  has  Ixitherto  floated  upon  the  stream  of 
time,  while  so  many  others  of  much  greater  weight  and  value  have 
sunlv  to  rise  no  more,  it  has  been  solely  indebted  for  its  buoyancy 
to  that  specific  levity  which  enables  feathers,  straws,  and  similar 
trifles,  to  defer  their  submersion,  until  they  have  become  thoroughly 
saturated  with  the  waters  of  oblivion,  when  they  quickly  meet  the 
fate  wliich  they  had  long  before  merited. 

Our  ingenuous  and  ingenious  friend  furthermore  observed,  that 
the  demolition  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  by  fire,  its  reconstruction 
under  the  auspices  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Whitbread,t  tlie  reward 
offered  by  the  Committee  for  an  opening  address,  and  the  public 
recitation  of  a  poem  composed  expressly  for  the  occasion  by 
Lord  Byron,  one  of  the  most  popular  writers  of  the  age,  formed 

[•  12mo,  ISnr;.     The  first  published  by  Mr.    Murray.     The   "Preface"  was 
•written  by  Horace  Smith  ;    the    "  Notes"  to  the  Poems  by  James  Smith.] 
[t  Samuel  Wliitbread,  M.P.     He  died  by  bis  own  hand  in  1815.] 


292  PREFACE   TO 

an  extraordinary  concurrence  of  circumstances  which  could  not 
fail  to  insm-e  the  success  of  the  Rejected  Addresses,  while  it  has 
subsequently  served  to  fix  them  in  the  memory  of  the  public,  so 
far  at  least  as  a  poor  immortaUty  of  twenty  years  can  be  said  to 
have  effected  tliat  object.  In  fixct,  continued  our  impartial  and 
affectionate  monitor,  your  little  work  owes  its  present  obscure 
existence  entirely  to  the  accidents  that  have  surrounded  and 
embalmed  it, — even  as  flies,  and  other  worthless  insects,  may 
long  survive  their  natural  date  of  extinction,  if  they  chance  to 
be  preserved  in  amber,  or  any  similar  substance. 

The  things  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare — 
But  wonder  how  the  devil  they  get  there ! — Pope. 

"With  the  natural  affection  of  parents  for  the  offspring  of  their 
own  brains,  we  ventured  to  hint  that  some  portion  of  otrr  suc- 
cess might  perhaps  be  attributable  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
different  imitations  were  executed ;  but  our  worthy  friend  pro- 
tested that  his  sincere  regard  for  us,  as  well  as  for  the  cause  of 
truth,  compelled  him  to  reject  our  claim,  and  to  pronounce  that, 
Avhen  once  the  idea  had  been  conceived,  all  the  rest  followed  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  might  have  been  executed  by  any  other 
hands  not  less  felicitously  than  by  our  own. 

Willingly  leaving  this  matter  to  the  decision  of  the  public, 
since  we  cannot  be  umpires  in  our  own  cause,  we  proceed  to  de- 
tail such  circumstances  attending  the  "UTiting  and  publication  of 
our  Uttle  work,  as  may  hterally  meet  the  wishes  of  the  present 
proprietor  of  the  copyright,  who  has  applied  to  us  for  a  gossiping 
Preface.  "Were  we  disposed  to  be  grave  and  didactic,  which  is  as 
foreign  to  our  mood  as  it  was  twenty  years  ago,  we  might  draw 
the  attention  of  the  reader,  in  a  fine  sententious  paragraph,  to  the 
trifles  upon  wliich  the  fate  of  empires,  as  well  as  a  four-and-sixpenny 
volume  of  parodies,  occasionally  hangs  in  trembling  balance.  No 
sooner  was  the  idea  of  our  work  conceived,  than  it  was  about  to 
be  abandoned  in  embryo,  from  the  apprehension  that  we  had  no 
time  to  mature  and  bring  it  forth,  as  it  Avas  indispensable  that  it 
should  be  wi-itten,  printed,  and  published  by  the  opening  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  which  Avould  only  allow  us  an  interval  of  six 
weeks,  and  we  had  both  of  us  other  avocations  that  precluded 
us  from  the  full  command  of  even  that  Umited  period.  Encour- 
aged, however,  by  the  conviction  that  the  thought  was  a  good 


THE   EIGHTEENTU    EDITIOX.  293 

one,  and  by  the  hope  of  making  a  lucky  hit,  we  set  to  work  con 
amove,  our  VL-ry  hm-ry  not  improbably  enabling  us  to  strilvc  out  at 
a  heat  what  we  might  have  failed  to  produce  so  well,  had  we 
possessed  time  enough  to  hammer  it  into  more  careful  and  elabo- 
rate form. 

Om-  first  difficulty,  that  of  selection,  was  by  no  means  a  light 
one.  Some  of  our  most  eminent  poets,  such,  for  instance,  as 
Eogers  and  Campbell,  presented  so  much  beauty,  harmony,  and 
proportion  in  their  writings,  both  as  to  style  and  sentiment,  that 
if  Ave  had  attempted  to  caricature  them,  nobody  would  have  rec- 
ognised theUkeucss;  and  if  we  had  endeavoured  to  give  a  servile 
copy  of  their  manner,  it  would  only  have  amounted,  at  best,  to 
a  tame  and  unamusing  portrait,  which  it  was  not  our  object  to 
present.  Although  fully  aware  that  their  names  would,  in  the 
theatrical  phi-ase,  have  conferred  great  strength  upon  our  bill,  we 
were  reluctantly  compelled  to  forego  them,  and  to  confine  ourselves 
to  writers  whose  style  and  habit  of  thought,  being  more  marked 
and  pecuUar,  was  more  capable  of  exaggeration  and  distortion. 
To  avoid  politics  and  personality,  to  imitate  the  turn  of  mind,  as 
well  as  the  phraseology  of  our  originals,  and,  at  all  events,  to 
raise  a  harmless  laugh,  were  our  main  objects :  in  the  attainment 
of  which  united  aims,  we  were  sometimes  hurried  into  extrava- 
gance, by  attaching  much  more  importance  to  the  last  than  to 
the  two  first.  In  no  instance  were  we  thus  betrayed  into  a 
greater  injustice  than  in  the  case  of  JVIr.  Wordsworth — the 
touching  sentiment,  profound  wisdom,  and  copious  harmony  of 
Avhose  loftier  writhigs  wc  left  unnoticed,  in  the  desire  of  bur- 
lesquing them ;  while  we  pounced  upon  his  popular  ballads,  and 
exerted  ourselves  to  push  their  simplicity  into  puerihty  and  silli- 
ness. "With  pride  and  pleasure  do  we  now  claim  to  be  ranked 
among  tlie  most  ardent  admirers  of  this  true  poet ;  and  if  he 
himself  could  see  tlie  state  of  his  works,  wliich  are  ever  at  our 
right  hand,  he  would,  perhaps,  receive  the  manifest  evidence 
they  exhibit  of  constant  reference,  and  delighted  re-perusal,  as 
some  sort  of  amende  honorable  for  the  unfairness  of  which  we 
were  guilty,  when  we  were  less  conversant  with  the  higher  in- 
spirations of  liis  muse.  To  Mr.  Coleridge,  and  others  of  our 
originals,  we  must  also  do  a  tardy  act  of  justice,  by  declaring  that 
our  burlesque  of  their  peculiarities  has  never  blinded  us  to  those 
beauties  and  talents  which  are  beyond  the  reach  of  all  ridicule. 


294  PREFACE   TO 

One  of  us*  had  "written  a  genuine  Address  for  the  occasion, 
which  was  sent  to  the  Committee,  and  sliared  the  fate  it  merited, 
in  being  rejected.  To  swell  the  bulk,  or  rather  to  diminish  the 
tenuity  of  our  httle  work,  we  added  it  to  the  Imitations ;  and 
prefixing  the  initials  of  S.  T.  P.  for  the  purpose  of  puzzling  the 
critics,  were  not  a  httle  amused,  m  the  sequel,  by  the  many 
guesses  and  conjectures  into  which  we  had  ensnared  some  of  our 
readers.  We  could  even  enjoy  the  mysticism,  qualified  as  it  was 
by  the  poor  comphment,  that  our  carefully  written  Address 
exhibited  no  "  very  prominent  trait  of  absurdity,"  when  we  saw 
it  thus  noticed  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  November  1812. 
"  An  Address  by  S.  T.  P.  we  can  make  nothing  of;  and  profess- 
ing our  ignorance  of  the  author  designated  by  these  letters,  we 
can  only  add,  that  the  Address,  though  a  httle  affected,  and  not 
very  full  of  meaning,  has  no  very  prominent  trait  of  absurdity, 
that  we  can  detect ;  and  might  have  been  adopted  and  spoken, 
so  far  as  we  can  perceive,  without  any  hazard  of  ridicule.  In  our 
simplicity  we  consider  it  as  a  A'ery  decent,  meUifiuous,  occasional 
prologue :  and  do  not  imderstand  how  it  has  found  its  way  into 
its  present  company." 

Urged  forward  by  hurry,  and  trusting  to  chance,  two  very  bad 
coadjutors  in  any  enterprise,  we  at  length  congratulated  ourselves 
on  having  completed  our  task  in  time  to  have  it  printed  and  pub- 
lished by  the  opening  of  the  theatre.  But  alas !  our  difficulties, 
so  far  from  being  surmounted,  seemed  only  to  be  beginning. 
Strangers  to  the  arcana  of  the  bookseller's  trade,  and  unacquainted 
with  their  almost  invincible  objection  to  single  volumes  of  low 
price,  especially  when  tendered  by  writers  who  have  acquired  no 
previous  name,  we  httle  anticipated  that  they  would  refuse  to 
pubhsh  our  Rejected  Addresses^  even  although  we  asked  nothing 
for  the  copyright.  Such,  however,  proved  to  be  the  case.  Our 
manuscript  was  perused  and  returned  to  us  by  several  of  the 
most  eminent  pubhshers.t     Well  do  we  remember  betakmg  our- 

[  *  This  was  Horatio,  the  writer  of  the  present  Preface.] 

[t  The  passage,  as  originally  written,  continued  thus,  "and  among  others,  so 
difficult  is  it  in  forming  a  correct  judgment  in  catering  to  the  public  taste,  by  the 
very  bibliopolist  who  has  now,  after  an  interval  of  twenty  [only  seven]  years, 
purchased  the  copyright  from  a  brother  bookseller  and  ventured  upon  the 
present  edition."  To  this,  on  thn  proof-sheet,  the  late  Mr.  Murray  appended  the 
following  note ;— "  I  never  saw  or  even  had  the  MS.  in  my  possession ;  but  know- 


THE   EIGHTEENTH   EDITION.  295 

selves  to  one  of  the  craft  in  Bond-street,  -wliom  Ave  found  in  a 
back  parlour,  Avitli  his  gouty  leg  propped  upon  a  cushion,  in  spite 
of  which  warning  lie  diluted  his  luncheon  with  frequent  glasses 
of  Maderia.  "What  have  you  already  written?"  was  his  first 
question,  an  interrogatory  to  which  we  had  been  subjected  in 
almost  every  instance.  "  Nothing  by  wliich  we  can  be  known." 
"  Then  I  am  afraid  to  undertake  the  publication."  We  presumed 
timidly  to  suggest  that  every  writer  must  have  a  beginning,  and 
that  to  refuse  to  publish  for  him  until  he  had  acquired  a  name, 
was  to  imitate  the  sapient  mother  who  cautioned  her  son  againt 
going  into  the  Avater  until  he  could  swim.  "An  old  joke — a 
regular  Joe!"  exclaimed  our  companion,  tossing  off  another 
bumper.  "  Still  older  tliau  Joe  Miller,"  was  our  reply ;  "  for,  if 
we  mistalvc  not,  it  is  the  very  first  anecdote  in  the  facetiffi  of 
Hierocles."  "Ha,  sirs!"  resumed  the  bibhopolist,  "you  are 
learned,  are  you  ?  So,  soh ! — Well,  leave  your  manuscript  witli 
me ;  I  will  look  it  over  to-night,  and  give  you  an  answer  to- 
morrow." Punctual  as  the  clock  we  presented  ourselves  at  his 
door  on  the  following  morning,  when  our  papers  were  returned 
to  us  witli  the  observation — "  These  trifles  are  really  not  deficient 
in  smartness;  they  are  well,  vastly  weU  for  beginners;  but  they 
will  never  do — never.  They  would  not  pay  for  advertising,  and 
without  it  I  should  not  sell  fifty  copies." 

This  was  discouraging  enough.  If  the  most  experienced  pub- 
lishers feared  to  be  out  of  pocket  by  the  work,  it  was  manifest,  d 
fortiori,  that  its  writers  ran  a  risk  of  being  still  more  heavy 
losers,  should  they  undertake  the  publication  on  their  own 
account.  We  had  no  objection  to  raise  a  laugh  at  the  expense 
of  others ;  but  to  do  it  at  our  own  cost,  uncertain  as  we  were  to 
what  extent  we  might  be  involved,  had  never  entered  into  our 
contemplation.  In  tliis  dilemma,  our  Addresses,  now  in  every 
sense  rejected,  might  probably  have  never  seen  the  light,  had  not 
some  good  angel  whispered  us  to  betake  ourselves  to  Mr.  John 
Miller,  a  dramatic  publisher,  then  residing  in  Bow-street,  Covent 
Garden.  Xo  sooner  had  this  gentleman  looked  over  our  manu- 
script, than  he  immediately  ofiered  to  take  upon  himself  all  the 

ing  that  Mr.  Smith  was  hrother-in-law^  to  Mr.  Cadell,  1  took  it  for  granted  that 
the  MS.  had  been  previously  offered  to  liim  and  declined."  Mr.  H.  Smith  con- 
sequently drew  his  pen  through  the  passage.] 


296  PREFACE   TO 

risk  of  publication,  and  to  give  us  half  the  profits,  should  there  he 
any ;  a  hberal  proposition  with  which  we  gladly  closed.  So 
rapid  and  decided  was  its  success,  at  which  none  were  more  un- 
feignedly  astonished  than  its  authors,  that  Mr.  MiUer  advised  us 
to  collect  some  Imitations  of  Horace,  which  had  appeared  anony- 
mously in  the  Monthly  Mirror*  oflfering  to  publish  them  upon  the 
same  terms.  We  did  so  accorchngly ;  and  as  new  editions  of  the 
Rejected  Addresses  were  called  for  in  quick  succession,  we  were 
shortly  enabled  to  sell  our  half  copyright  in  the  two  works  to 
Mr.  !Miller,  for  one  thousand  pounds ! !  We  have  entered  into 
tliis  unimportant  detail,  not  to  gratify  any  vanity  of  our  o^YU,  but 
to  encourage  such  literary  beginners  as  may  be  placed  in  similar 
circumstances ;  as  well  as  to  impress  upon  publishers  the  propriety 
of  giving  more  consideration  to  the  possible  merit  of  the  works 
submitted  to  them,  than  to  the  mere  magic  of  a  name. 

To  the  credit  of  the  genus  in-itabile  be  it  recorded,  that  not  one 
of  those  whom  we  had  parodied  or  burlesqued  ever  betrayed  the 
least  soreness  on  the  occasion,  or  refused  to  join  in  the  laugh  that 
we  had  occasioned.  With  most  of  them  we  subsequently  formed 
acquaintancesliip ;  while  some  honoured  us  with  an  intimacy  which 
still  continues,  where  it  has  not  been  severed  by  the  rude  hand 
of  Death.  Alas !  it  is  painful  to  reflect,  that  of  the  twelve  writers 
whom  we  presumed  to  imitate,  five  are  now  no  more ;  the  Hst  of 
the  deceased  being  unhappily  swelled  by  the  most  illustrious  of 
all,  the  clarum  et  venerahile  nomen  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  I  From 
that  distinguished  writer,  whose  transcendent  talents  were  only 
to  be  equalled  by  his  virtues  and  his  amiability,  we  received  fa- 
vours and  notice,  both  pubUc  and  private,  which  it  will  be  difficult 
to  forget,  because  we  had  not  the  smallest  claim  upon  his  kind- 
ness. "  I  certainly  must  have  written  this  myself  I"  said  that 
fine-tempered  man  to  one  of  the  authors,  pointing  to  the  de- 
scription of  the  Fire,  "  Although  I  forget  upon  what  occasion." 
Lydia  White,t  a  literary  lady  who  was  prone  to  feed  the  hons  of 
the  day,  invited  one  of  us  to  dinner ;  but,  recollecting  afterwards 

[  *  Between  1S07  and  ISIO.  The  MontMii  Mirror  was  edited  by  Edward  Du 
Bois,  author  of  "  My  Pocket-Book,"  and  by  Thomas  IliU  ;  the  original  Paul  Pry ; 
and  the  Hull  of  Mr.  Theodore  Hook's  novel  of  "  Gilbert  Gurney."] 

[  t  Miss  Lydia  Wliite,  celebrated  for  her  lively  wit  and  for  her  blue-stocking 
parties,  unrivalled,  it  is  said,  in  "the  soft  realm  of  hlu&  May  Fair."  She  died 
in  1S27,  and  is  mentioned  in  the  Diaries  of  Scott  and  Byron.] 


TlIFi    EIGHTEENTH    EDITION.  297 

that  "William  Spencer  formod  one  of  tlio  party,  ■wrote  to  tlie 
latter  to  put  him  off;  tcUing  him  that  a  man  was  to  be  at  her 
table  whom  "he  would  not  like  to  meet."  "  Pray  who  is  this 
whom  I  should  not  like  to  meet  ?"  inquired  the  poet.  "  0 1" 
answered  the  lady,  "  one  of  tl^ose  men  who  have  made  that 
shameful  attack  upon  you  I"  "  The  very  man  upon  earth  I  should 
like  to  know  I"  rejoined  the  lively  and  careless  bard.  The  two 
individuals  accordingly  met,  and  have  continued  fast  friends  ever 
since.  Lord  Byron,  too,  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  Murray  from  Italy— 
"Tell  liim  I  forgive  him,  were  ho  twenty  times  over  our 
satirist." 

It  may  not  be  amiss  to  notice,  in  tliis  place,  one  criticism  of  a 
Leicestershire  clergyman,  which  may  be  pronounced  unique:  "I 
do  not  sec  why  they  should  have  been  rejected,"  observed  the 
matter-of-fiict  annotator ;  "  I  think  some  of  them  very  good  1" 
Upon  the  whole,  few  have  been  the  instances,  in  the  acrimonious 
history  of  hterature,  where  a  malicious  pleasantry  like  the  Re- 
jected Addresses — which  the  parties  ridiculed  might  well  consider 
more  annoying  than  a  direct  satire — instead  of  being  met  by 
querulous  bitterness  or  petulant  retaUation,  has  procured  for  its 
authors  the  acquaintance,  or  conciliated  the  good-will,  of  those 
whom  they  had  the  most  audaciously  burlesqued. 

In  commenting  on  a  work,  however  trifling,  which  has  sur- 
vived the  lapse  of  twenty  years,  an  author  may  almost  claim 
the  privileged  garrulity  of  age ;  yet  even  in  a  professedly  gos- 
siping Preface,  we  begin  to  fear  that  we  are  exceeding  our  com- 
mission, and  abusing  the  patience  of  the  reader.  If  we  are 
doing  so,  we  might  urge  extenuating  circumstances,  which  will 
explain,  though  they  may  not  excuse,  our  diiFuseness.  To  one 
of  us  the  totally  unexpected  success  of  this  httle  work  proved 
an  important  event,  since  it  mainly  decided  him,  some  years  af- 
terwards, to  embark  in  the  Uterary  career  which  the  continued 
favour  of  that  novel-reading  world  has  rendered  both  pleasant 
and  profitable  to  him.  This  is  the  first,  as  it  will  probably  be 
the  last,  occasion  upon  which  we  shall  ever  intrude  ourselves 
personally  on  the  puljlic  notice ;  and  Ave  trust  that  our  now  doing 
so  will  stand  excused  by  the  reasons  we  have  adduced.  For  the 
portraits  prefixed  to  this  edition  we  arc  in  no  way  responsible. 
At  the  sale  of  the  late  Mr,  Harlowe's  effects,  the  drawing  from 
13* 


298  PREFACE    TO    THE    EIGHTEENTH    EDITION. 

which  they  are  engraved  was  i:)urchased  by  !Mr.  Murray ;  who, 
conceiving  probably  that  we  had  no  interest  in  the  matter — 
since  they  were  not  Ukenesses  of  our  present  heads,  but  of  those 
which  we  possessed  twenty  years  ago — ^has  thought  proper  to 
give  them  publicity,  without  consulting  their  now  rather  anti- 
quated originals. 

LoNDOK,  March,  1833. 


I. 

LOYAL  EFFUSION. 

BY  \V.  T.  F. 


"  Quicquid  dicunt,  laudo  :  id  rursum  si  negant, 
Laudo  id  quoque."  Teeencb. 

Hail,  glorious  edifice,  stupendous  work  ! 
God  bless  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  York  I 

Ye  Muses !  by  whose  aid  I  cried  down  Fox, 
Grant  me  in  Drurj  Lane  a  private  box, 
Where  I  may  loll,  cry  Bravo !  and  profess 
The  boundless  powers  of  England's  glorious  press , 
While  Afric's  sons  exclaim,  from  shore  to  shore, 
"  Quashee  ma  boo!" — the  slave-trade  is  no  more  ! 

Li  fair  Arabia  (happy  once,  now  stony, 
Since  ruined  by  that  arch  apostate  Boney, ) 
A  Phoenix  late  was  caught :  the  Arab  host 
Long  ponder' d — part  would  boil  it,  part  would  roast ; 
But  while  they  ponder,  up  the  pot-lid  flics. 
Fledged,  beak'd,  and  claw'd,  alive  they  see  him  rise 
To  heaven,  and  caw  defiance  in  the  skies. 
So  Drury,  first  in  roasting  flames  consumed, 
Then  by  old  renters  to  hot  Avater  doom'd, 
By  Wyatt's^  trowel  patted,  plump  and  sleek, 
Soars  without  wings,  and  caws  without  a  beak. 
Gallia's  stern  despot  shall  in  vain  advance 
From  Paris,  the  metropolis  of  France ; 
By  this  day  month  the  monster  shall  not  gain 
A  foot  of  land  in  Portugal  or  Spain. 


300  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

See  Wellington  in  Salamanca's  field 

Forces  his  favourite  general  to  yield, 

Breaks  through  his  lines,  and  leaves  his  boasted  Mar- 

mont 
Expiring  on  the  plain  without  his  arm  on ; 
Madrid  he  enters  at  the  cannon's  mouth. 
And  then  the  villages  still  further  south. 
Base  Buonaparte,  fill'd  with  deadly  ire, 
Sets,  one  by  one,  our  playhouses  on  fire. 
Some  years  ago  he  pounced  with  deadly  glee  on 
The  Opera  House,  then  burnt  down  the  Pantheon ; 
Nay,  still  unsated,  in  a  coat  of  flames. 
Next  at  Millbank  he  cross'd  the  river  Thames ; 
Thy  hatch,  0  Halfpenny  I^  pass'd  in  a  trice, 
Boil'd  some  black  pitch,  and  burnt  down  Astley's  twice ; 
Then  buzzing  on  through  ether  with  a  vile  hum, 
Turn'd  to  the  left  hand,  fronting  the  Asylum, 
And  burnt  the  Royal  Circus  in  a  hurry — 
('Twas  call'd  the  Circus  then,  but  now  the  Surrey). 

Who  burnt  (confound  his  soul !)  the  houses  twain 
Of  Co  vent  Garden  and  of  Drury  Lane  ?^ 
Who.  while  the  British  squadron  lay  off  Coi-k 
(God  bless  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  York  !) 
With  a  foul  earthquake  ravaged  the  Caraccas, 
And  raised  the  price  of  dry  goods  and  tobaccos  ? 
Who  makes  the  quartern  loaf  and  Luddites  rise  ? 
Who  fills  the  butchers'  shops  with  large  blue  flies? 
Who  thought  in  flames  St.  James's  court  to  pinch?* 
Who  burnt  the  wardrobe  of  poor  Lady  Finch  ? — 
Why  he,  who,  forging  for  this  isle  a  yoke, 
Reminds  me  of  a  line  I  lately  spoke, 
"  The  tree  of  freedom  is  the  British  oak." 

Bless  every  man  possess' d  of  aught  to  give ; 
Long  may  Long  Tylney  Wellesley  Long  Pole  live;^ 


LOYAL   EFFUSTOfr.  301 

God  bless  the  Army,  bless  their  coats  of  scarlet, 
God  bless  the  Navy,  bless  the  Princess  Charlotte ; 
God  bless  the  guards,  though  worsted  Gallia  scoff, 
God  bless  their  pig-tails,  though  they  'i«  now  cut  off; 
And,  oh  !  in  Downing  Street  should  Old  Nick  revel, 
England's  prime  minister,  then  bless  the  devil ! 


II. 

THE  BABY'S  DEBUT. 

BY    W.  W. 


"Thy  lisping  prattle  and  thy  mincing  gait. 
All  thy  false  mimic  fooleries  I  hate ; 
For  thou  art  Folly's  counterfeit,  and  she 
"Who  is  right  foolish  hath  the  better  plea ; 
Nature's  true  Idiot  I  prefer  to  thee." 

CUMBEELAND. 

[SpoTcen  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  a  girl  eight  years  of  age, 
who  is  drawn  upon  the  stage  in  a  child's  chaise  by  Samuel 
Hughes,  her  uncle's  porter^ 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May/ 
And  I  was  eight  on  New-year's-day ; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me,  last  week,  a  doll  of  wax, 

And  brother  Jack  a  top. 

Jack 's  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is, — 
He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his ; 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes, 
Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  0,  my  stars ! 
He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 

And  melts  oflf  half  her  nose ! 

Quite  cross,  a  bit  of  string  I  beg, 
And  tie  it  to  his  peg-top's  peg. 

And  bang,  with  might  and  main. 


THE  baby's  debut.  303 

Its  head  against  the  parlour-door  : 
Off  flics  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor, 
And  breaks  a  ^Yindow-pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite : 
Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right. 

A  pretty  thing,  forsooth  ! 
If  he 's  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot, 
Half  my  doll's  nose,  and  I  am  not 

To  draw  his  peg-top's  tooth ! 

Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break, 
And  cried,  "  0  naughty  Nancy  Lake, 

Thus  to  distress  your  aunt : 
No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day  !" 
And  while  papa  said,  "Pooh,  she  may!" 

Mamma  said,  "  No,  she  sha'n't!" 

Well,  after  many  a  sad  reproach, 
They  got  into  a  hackney  coach. 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 
I  saw  them  go :  one  horse  was  blind, 
The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind, 

Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet. 

The  chaise  in  which  poor  brother  Bill 
Used  to  be  drawn  to  Pentonville, 

Stood  in  the  lumber-room : 
I  wiped  the  dust  from  off  the  top, 
While  Molly  mopp'd  it  with  a  mop, 

And  brushed  it  with  a  broom. 

My  uncle's  porter,  Samuel  Hughes, 
Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes, 
(I  always  talk  to  Sam  :) 


504  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

So  what  does  he,  but  takes,  and  di-ags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  flags. 
And  leaves  me  where  I  am. 

My  father's  walls  are  made  of  brick, 
But  not  so  tall  and  not  so  thick 

As  these  ;  and,  goodness  me  ! 
My  father's  beams  are  made  of  wood, 
But  never,  never  half  so  good 

As  those  that  now  I  see. 

What  a  large  floor  !  'tis  like  a  town ! 
The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down, 

"Won't  hide  it  I  '11  be  bound  ; 
And  there's  a  row  of  lamps  1 — my  eye ! 
How  they  do  blaze !  I  wonder  why 
They  keep  them  on  the  ground. 

At  first  I  caught  hold  of  the  wing. 
And  kept  away ;  but  Mr.  Thing- 

um  bob,  the  prompter  man. 
Gave  with  his  hand  my  chaise  a  shove, 
And  said,  ^'  Go  on,  my  pretty  love; 

Speak  to  'em,  little  Nan. 

"You  've  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp- 
er, hold  your  chin  up,  laugh,  and  lisp, 

And  then  you  're  sure  to  take : 
I  've  known  the  day  when  brats,  not  quite 
Thirteen,  got  fifty  pounds  a  night  f 

Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake?  " 

But  while  I  'm  speaking,  where  's  papa? 
And  where  's  my  aunt?    and  where  's  mamma? 
Where  's  Jack  ?     0,  there  they  sit ! 


THE  baby's  debut.  305 

They  smile,  they  nod  ;  I  '11  go  my  ways, 
And  order  round  poor  Billy's  chaise, 
To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I  go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show ; 

So,  bidding  you  adieu, 
I  curtsey,  like  a  pretty  miss. 
And  if  you  '11  blow  to  me  a  kiss, 

I'll  blow  a  kiss  to  you. 

[Blows  a  Jciss,  and  exit.'] 


III. 
AN  ADDRESS 

"WITHOUT    A    PHCENIX.^ 
BY    S.    T,    P. 


"  This  was  looked  for  at  your  band,  and  this  was  balked." 

What  You  Will. 

What  stat.-'ly  vision  mocks  my  waking  sense  ? 

Hence,  dear  delusion,  sweet  enchantment,  hence  ! 

Ha !  is  it  real  ? — can  my  doubts  be  vain  ? 

It  is,  it  is,  and  Drurj  lives  again  ! 

Around  each  grateful  veteran  attends, 

Eager  to  rush  and  gratulate  his  friends, 

Friends  Avhose  kind  looks,  retraced  Avith  proud  delight, 

Endear  the  past,  and  make  the  future  bright : 

Yes,  generous  patrons,  jour  returning  smile 

Blesses  our  toils,  and  consecrates  our  pile. 

When  last  we  met.  Fate's  unrelenting  hand 
Already  grasped  the  devastating  brand ; 
Slow  crept  the  silent  flame,  ensnared  its  prize, 
Then  burst  resistless  to  the  astonished  skies. 
The  glowing  walls  disrobed  of  scenic  pride, 
In  trembling  conflict  stemmed  the  burning  tide, 
Till  crackling,  blazing,  rocking  to  its  flill, 
Down  rushed  the  thundering  roof  and  buried  all ! 

Where  late  the  sister  Muses  sweetly  sung, 
And  raptured  thousands  on  their  music  hung. 


AN   ADDRESS    WITHOUT    A    PHCENIX.  307 

Where  "Wit  and  Wisdom  shone,  by  Beauty  graced, 

Sat  lonely  Silence,  empress  of  the  waste ; 

And  still  had  reigned — but  he,  Avhose  voice  can  raise 

More  magic  wonders  than  Amphion's  lays. 

Bade  jarring  bands  Avith  friendly  zeal  engage 

To  rear  the  prostrate  glories  of  the  stage. 

Up  leaped  the  Muses  at  the  potent  spell, 

And  Drury's  genius  saw  his  temple  swell ; 

Worthy,  we  hope,  the  British  Drama's  cause, 

Worthy  of  British  arts,  and  your  applause. 

Guided  by  you,  our  earnest  aims  presume 
To  renovate  the  drama  with  the  dome  ; 
The  scenes  of  Shakespeare  and  our  bards  of  old, 
With  due  observance  splendidly  unfold, 
Yet  raise  and  foster  with  parental  hand 
The  living  talent  of  our  native  land. 
0  !  may  we  still,  to  sense  and  nature  true, 
Delight  the  many,  nor  offend  the  few. 
Though  varying  tastes  our  changeful  Drama  claim, 
Still  be  its  moral  tendency  the  same. 
To  win  by  precept,  by  example  warn, 
To  brand  the  front  of  Vice  with  pointed  scorn. 
And  Virtue's  smiling  brows  with  votive  wreaths  adorn. 


rv. 

CUI  BONO? 

BY     LORD    B. 

I, 

Sated  -witli  home,  of  wife,  of  children  tired, 
The  restless  soul  is  driven  abroad  to  roam  ;  ^ 
Sated  abroad,  all  seen  yet  nought  admired, 
The  restless  soul  is  driven  to  ramble  home ; 
Sated  with  both,  beneath  new  Drurj's  dome 
The  fiend  Ennui  awhile  consents  to  pine, 
There  growls,  and  curses,  like  a  deadly  Gnome, 
Scorning  to  view  fantastic  Columbine, 
Viewing  with  scorn  and  hate  the  nonsense  of  the  Nine.^ 

II. 
Ye  reckless  dupes,  who  hither  wend  your  way 
To  gaze  on  puppets  in  a  painted  dome. 
Pursuing  pastimes  glittering  to  betray, 
Like  falling  stars  in  life's  eternal  gloom. 
What  seek  ye  here  ?     Joy's  evanescent  bloom  ? 
Woe  's  me !  the  brightest  wreaths  she  ever  gave 
Are  but  as  flowers  that  decorate  a  tomb. 
Man's  heart,  the  mournful  urn  o'er  which  they  wave, 
Is  sacred  to  despair,  its  pedestal  the  grave. 

III. 
Has  life  so  little  store  of  real  woes. 
That  here  ye  wend  to  taste  fictitious  grief? 


CUI   BONO?  300 

Or  is  it  that  from  truth  such  anguish  {lo^ys, 
Ye  court  the  lying  drama  for  relief? 
Long  shall  je  find  the  pang,  the  respite  brief: 
Or  if  one  tolerable  page  appears 
In  folly's  volume,  'tis  the  actor's  leaf, 
Who  dries  his  own  by  drawing  others'  tears, 
And,  raising  present  mirth,  makes  glad  his  future  years. 

IV. 
Albeit,  how  like  young  Betty  doth  ho  flee  ! 
Light  as  the  moat  that  danceth  in  the  beam, 
He  livcth  only  in  man's  present  e'e ; 
His  life  a  flash,  his  memory  a  dream, 
Oblivious  down  he  drops  in  Lethe's  stream. 
Yet  what  are  they,  the  learned  and  the  great  ? 
Awhile  of  longer  wonderment  the  theme  ! 
"Who  shall  presume  to  prophesy  their  date. 
Where  nought  is  certain,  save  the  uncertainty  of  fate  ? 

V. 

This  goodly  pile,  upheaved  by  Wyatt's  toil, 
Perchance  than  Holland's  edifice^  more  fleet. 
Again  red  Lcmnos'  artisan  may  spoil ; 
The  fire-alarm  and  midnight  drum  may  beat, 
And  all  bestrewed  ysmoking  at  your  feet ! 
Start  ye  ?  perchance  Death's  angel  may  be  sent, 
Ere  from  the  flaming  temple  ye  retreat ; 
And  ye  who  met,  on  revel  idlesse  bent^ 
May  find,  in  pleasure's  fane,  your  grave  and  monument. 

YT. 

Your  debts  mount  high — ye  plunge  in  deeper  waste ; 
The  tradesman  duns— no  warning  voice  ye  hear ; 
The  plaintiff  sues — to  public  shows  ye  haste ; 
The  bailiff  threats — ye  feel  no  idle  fear. 


310  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

Who  can  arrest  your  prodigal  career  ? 
Who  can  keep  down  the  levity  of  youth  ? 
What  sound  can  startle  age's  stubborn  ear? 
Who  can  redeem  from  -wretchedness  and  ruth 
Men  true  to  falsehood's  voice,  false  to  the  voice  of  truth  ? 

VII. 

To  thee,  blest  saint !  who  doffed  thy  skin  to  make 
The  Smithfield  rabble  leap  from  theirs  with  joy. 
We  dedicate  the  pile — arise  !  awake  ! — 
Knock  down  the  Muses,  wit  and  sense  destroy, 
Clear  our  new  stage  from  reason's  dull  alloy, 
Charm  hobbling  age,  and  tickle  capering  youth 
Vf  ith  cleaver,  marrow-bone,  and  Tunbridge  toy ; 
While,  vibrating  in  unbelieving  tooth,* 
Harps  twang  in  Drury's  Avails,  and  make  her  boards  a 
booth. 


For  what  is  Hamlet,  but  a  hare  in  T>Iarch  ? 
And  what  is  Brutus,  but  a  croaking  owl  ? 
And  what  is  Rolla  ?     Cupid  steeped  in  starch, 
Orlando's  helmet  in  Augustin's  cowl. 
Shakespeare,  how  true  thine  adage,  "  fair  is  foul!" 
To  him  whose  soul  is  with  fruition  fraught, 
The  song  of  Braham  is  an  Irish  howl. 
Thinking  is  but  an  idle  waste  of  thought. 
And  nought  is  everything,  and  everything  is  nought. 

IX. 

Sons  of  Parnassus  !  whom  I  view  above, 
Not  laurel-crown'd,  but  clad  in  rusty  black ; 
Not  spurring  Pegasus  through  Tempi's  grove, 
But  pacing  Grub-street  on  a  jaded  hack; 


GUI  BONO?  811 

"What  reams  of  foolscap,  while  your  brains  ye  rack, 
Ye  mar  to  make  again !  for  sure,  ere  long, 
Condemn'd  to  tread  the  bard's  timc-sanction'd  track, 
Ye  all  sliall  join  the  bailiff-haunted  throng. 
And  reproduce,  in  rags,  the  rags  ye  blot  in  song, 

X. 

So  fares  the  follower  in  the  Muses'  train ; 
He  toils  to  starve,  and  only  lives  in  death ; 
AVe  slight  him,  till  our  patronage  is  vain. 
Then  round  his  skeleton  a  garland  Avreathe, 
And  o'er  his  bones  an  empty  requiem  breathe — 
Oh  !  Avith  what  tragic  horror  would  he  start, 
(Could  he  be  conjured  from  the  grave  beneath) 
To  find  the  stage  again  a  Thespian  cart, 
And  elephants  and  colts  down  trampling  Shakespeare's 
art. 


Hence,  pedant  Nature  !  with  thy  Grecian  rules  ! 
Centaurs  (not  fabulous)  those  rules  efface ; 
Back,  sister  Muses,  to  your  native  schools ; 
Here  booted  grooms  usurp  Apollo's  place, 
Hoofs  shame  the  boards  that  Garrick  used  to  grace 
The  play  of  limbs  succeeds  the  play  of  wit, 
Man  yields  the  drama  to  the  Hou'yn'm  race, 
His  prompter  spurs,  his  licenser  the  bit. 
The  stage  a  stable-yard,  a  jockey-club  the  pit. 


Is  it  for  these  ye  rear  this  proud  abode  ? 
Is  it  for  these  your  superstition  seeks 
To  build  a  temple  worthy  of  a  god, 
To  laud  a  monkey,  or  to  worship  leeks ! 


312  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Then  be  the  stage,  to  recompense  your  freaks, 
A  motley  chaos,  jumbling  age  and  ranks, 
Where  Punch,  the  lignum-vitSB  Roscius,  squeaks. 
And  Wisdom  weeps,  and  Folly  plays  his  pranks. 
And  moody  Madness  laughs  and  hugs  the  chain  he  clanks. 


V. 


THE   SECRETARY  OF  THE   MANAG-ING  COMMITTEE 
OF  DRURY-LAXE  PLAYHOUSE. 


Sir, 

To  tbe  gewgaw  fetters  of  rhyme  (invented  by 
tlie  monks  to  enslave  the  people)  I  have  a  rooted  objec- 
tion. I  have  therefore  written  an  address  for  your 
Theatre  in  plain,  homespun,  yeoman's  pilose;  in  the 
doing  whereof  I  hope  I  am  swayed  by  nothing  but  an 
independent  wish  to  open  the  eyes  of  this  gulled  people, 
to  prevent  a  repetition  of  the  dramatic  hamhoozling 
they  have  hitherto  laboured  under.  If  you  like  what  I 
have  done,  and  mean  to  make  use  of  it,  I  do  n't  want 
any  such  aristocratic .  reward  as  a  piece  of  plate  with 
two  griffins  sprawling  upon  it,  or  a  dofj  and  a  jackass 
fighting  for  a  ha  p' worth  of  gilt  gingerbread,  or  any 
such  Bartholomew-fair  nonsense.  All  I  ask  is  that  the 
door-keepers  of  your  playhouse  may  take  all  the  sets  of 
my  Register'  now  on  hand,  and  force  every  body  Avho 
enters  your  doors  to  buy  one,  giving  afterwards  a  debtor 
and  creditor  account  of  what  they  have  received,  post- 
paid, and  in  due  course  remitting  me  the  money  and 
unsold  Registers,  carriage-paid. 

I  am,  &c. 

W.  C. 
14 


314  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

IK   THE   CHARACTER   OF 

A  HAMPSHIRE  FARMER. 

-"  Habida  qui  concitus  irii 


Implevit  pariter  temis  latratibus  auras, 

Et  sparsit  virides  spumis  albentibus  agros." — Ottd. 

Most  thinking  People, 

When  persons  address  an  audience  from  the  stage,  it  is 
usual,  either  in  words  or  gesture,  to  saj,  "  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen,  your  servant."  If  I  were  base  enough, 
mean  enough,  paltry  enough,  and  bi^iite  beast  enough, 
to  follow  that  fashion,  I  should  tell  two  lies  in  a  breath. 
In  the  first  place,  you  are  not  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 
but  I  hope  something  better,  that  is  to  say,  honest  men 
and  women ;  and  in  the  next  place,  if  you  were  ever  so 
much  ladies,  and  ever  so  much  gentlemen,  I  am  not, 
no?^  ever  will  5e,  your  humble  servant.  You  see  me 
here,  onost  thinking  people^  by  mere  chance.  I  have 
not  been  within  the  doors  of  a  playhouse  before  for 
these  ten  years;  nor,  till  that  abominable  custom  of 
taking  money  at  the  doors  is  discontinued,  will  I  ever 
sanction  a  theatre  with  my  presence.  The  stage-door  is 
the  only  gate  of  freedom  in  the  whole  edifice,  and 
through  that  I  made  my  way  from  Bagshaw's'  in 
Brydges  Street,  to  accost  you.  Look  about  you.  Are 
you  not  all  comfortable  ?  Nay,  never  slink,  mun ; 
speak  out,  if  you  arc  dissatisfied,  and  tell  me  so  before  I 
leave  town.  You  are  noAV,  (thanks  to  BIr.  Whitbread), 
got  into  a  large,  comfortable  house.  Not  into  a  f/i7n- 
crack  palace  ;  not  into  a  Solomon^ s  temple  ;  not  into  a 
frost-work  of  Brobdignag  filigree;    but  into  a  plain, 


HAMPSHIRE    farmer's   ADDRESS.  315 

honest,  homely,  industrious,  wholesome,  brown  brick 
plaijhoiLse.  You  have  been  struggUng  for  indepen- 
dence and  elbow-room  these  three  years  :  and  who  gave 
it  you?  Who  helped  you  out  of  Lilliput?  Who 
routed  you  from  a  rat-hole,  five  inches  by  four,  to  perch 
you  in  a  palace?  Again  and  again  I  answer,  Mr. 
Whitbrcad.  You  might  have  sweltered  in  that  place 
with  the  Greek  name^  till  doomsday,  and  neither  Lord 
Castlereaijh,  Mr.  Canning,  no,  nor  the  Marquess 
Welleslei/,  would  have  turned  a  trowel  to  help  you  out ! 
Remember  that.  Never  forget  that.  Read  it  to  your 
children,  and  to  your  children's  children!  And  now, 
most  thinking  ■people,  cast  your  eyes  over  my  head  to 
what  the  builder,  (I  beg  his  pardon,  the  architect,)  calls 
the  prosceniujn.  No  motto,  no  slang,  no  popish  Latin, 
to  keep  the  people  in  the  dark.  No  velnti  in  speculum. 
Nothing  in  the  dead  languages,  properly  so  called,  for 
they  ought  to  die,  ay  and  be  damned  to  boot !  The 
Covent  Garden  manager  tried  that,  and  a  pretty  business 
he  made  of  it !  When  a  man  says  veliiti  in  spcciduin, 
he  is  called  a  man  of  letters.  Very  well,  and  is  not  a 
man  who  cries  0.  P.  a  man  of  letters  too?  Y'ou  ran 
your  0.  P.  against  his  velnti  in  speculum,  and  pray 
which  beat?  I  prophesied  that,  though  I  never  told  any 
body.  I  take  it  for  granted,  that  every  intelligent  man, 
woman,  and  child,  to  whom  I  address  myself,  has  stood 
severally  and  respectively  in  Little  Russell  Street,  and 
cast  their,  his,  her,  and  its  eyes  on  the  outside  of  this 
building  before  they  paid  their  money  to  view  the  inside. 
Look  at  the  brick- work,  English  Audience !  Look  at 
the  brick- work  !  All  plain  and  smooth  like  a  quakers' 
meeting.  None  of  your  Egyptian  pyramids,  to  entomb 
subscribers'  capitals.  No  overgrown  colonnades  of 
stone,''  like  an  alderman's  gouty  legs  in  white  cotton 


316  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

stockings,  fit  only  to  use  as  rammers  for  paving  Totten- 
ham Court  Road.  This  house  is  neither  after  the  model 
of  a  temple  in  Athens,  no,  nor  a  temple  in  Moorftelds, 
but  it  is  built  to  act  English  plays  in ;  and,  provided  you 
have  good  scenery,  dresses,  and  decorations,  I  daresay 
you  -wouldn't  break  your  hearts  if  the  outside  was  as 
plain  as  the  pikestaff  I  used  to  carry  when  I  was  a  ser- 
geant. Apropos,  as  the  French  valets  say,  who  cut  their 
masters'  throats^ — apropos,  a  word  about  dresses.  You 
must,  many  of  you,  have  seen  what  I  have  read  a 
description  of,  Kemble  and  ]\Irs.  Siddons  in  ISIacbeth, 
with  more  gold  and  silver  plastered  on  their  doublets 
than  would  have  kept  an  honest  family  in  butcher's 
meat  and  flannel  from  year's  end  to  year's  end !  I  am 
informed,  (now  mind,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact),  but 
I  am  informed  that  all  such  extravagant  idleness  is  to  be 
done  away  with  here.  Lady  Macbeth  is  to  have  a  plain 
quilted  petticoat,  a  cotton  gown,  and  a  mob  cap  (as  the 
court  parasites  call  it ; — it  will  be  well  for  them,  if,  one 
of  these  days,  they  do  n't  wear  a  mob  cap — I  mean  a 
lahite  cap,  with  a  7nob  to  look  at  them)  ;  and  INIacbeth 
is  to  appear  in  an  honest  yeoman's  drab  coat,  and  a  pair 
of  black  calamanco  breeches.  Not  *S'a/amanca ;  no,  nor 
TaJavera  neither,  my  most  Noble  INIarquess ;  but  plain, 
honest,  black  calamanco  stuff  breeches.  This  is  right ; 
this  is  as  it  should  be.  Most  thinking  people,  I  have 
heard  you  much  abused.  There  is  not  a  compound  in 
the  language  but  is  strung  fifty  in  a  rope,  like  onions, 
by  the  Morning  Post,  and  hurled  in  your  teeth.  You 
are  called  the  mob,  and  when  they  have  made  you 
out  to  be  the  mob,  you  are  called  the  scum  of  the 
people,  and  the  dregs  of  the  people.  I  should  like  to 
know  how  you  can  be  both.  Take  a  basin  of  broth — not 
cheap  soup,  Mr.  Wilberforce—mi  soup  for  the  poor. 


HAMPSHIRE   farmer's   ADDRESS.  317 

at  a  penny  a  quart,  as  your  mixture  of  horses'  legs, 
brick-dust,  and  old  shoes,  Avas  denominated — but  plain, 
■wholesome,  patriotic  beef  or  mutton  broth ;  take  this, 
examine  it,  and  you  will  find — mind,  I  don't  vouch  for 
the  fact,  but  I  am  told— you  will  find  the  dregs  at  the 
bottom,  and  the  scum  at  the  top.  I  will  endeavour  to 
explain  this  to  you :  England  is  a  large  earthenware 
pipkin ;  John  Bull  is  the  beef  thrown  into  it ;  taxes 
are  the  hot  water  he  boils  in  ;  rotten  boroughs  are  the 
fuel  that  blazes  under  this  same  pipkin ;  parliament  is 
the  ladle  that  stirs   the  hodge-podge,   and  sometimes 

.     But,  hold  !  I  do  n't  wish  to  pay  3Ir.  Newman^ 

a  second  visit.  I  leave  you  better  ofl"  than  you  have 
been  this  many  a  day :  you  have  a  good  house  over 
your  head;  you  have  beat  the  French  in  Spain;  the 
harvest  has  turned  out  well ;  the  comet  keeps  its  dis- 
tance ;'  and  red  slippers  are  hawked  about  Constan- 
tinople for  next  to  nothing ;  and  for  all  this,  again  and 
again  I  tell  you,  you  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Whit- 
bread  ! ! ! 


VI. 
THE  LIVING  LUSTRES. 

BY    T.    M. 


"Jam  te  juvaverit 
Viros  relinquere, 
Doctseque  conjugis 
Sinu  quiescere." 

Sir  T.  Moke. 


I. 

0  WHY  should  our  dull  retrospective  addresses 
Fall  damp  as  wet  blankets  on  Drury  Lane  fire  ? 

Away  with  blue  devils,  away  with  distresses, 
And  give  the  gay  spirit  to  sparkling  desire ! 

II. 
Let  artists  decide  on  the  beauties  of  Drury, 

The  richest  to  me  is  Avhen  woman  is  there ; 
The  question  of  houses  I  leave  to  the  jury ; 

The  fairest  to  me  is  the  house  of  the  fair. 

III. 
When  woman's  soft  smile  all  our  senses  bewilders, 

And  gilds,  while  it  carves,  her  dear  form  on  the  heart, 
What  need  has  New  Drury  of  carvers  and  gilders  ? 

With  Nature  so  bounteous,  why  call  upon  Art? 

IV. 

How  well  would  our  actors  attend  to  their  duties, 
Our  house  save  in  oil,  and  our  authors  in  wit. 

In  lieu  of  yon  lamps,  if  a  row  of  young  beauties 

Glanced  light  from  their  eyes  between  us  and  the  pit ! 


THE    LTVINa    LUSTRES.  319 


The  apples  that  grew  on  the  fruit-tree  of  knowledge 
By  woman  were  pluck'd,  and  she  still  wears  the  prize, 

To  tempt  us  in  theatre,  senate,  or  college — 
I  mean  the  love-apples  that  bloom  in  the  eyes. 

VI. 

There  too  is  the  lash  which,  all  statutes  controlling, 
Still  governs  the  slaves  that  are  made  by  the  fair; 

For  man  is  the  pupil,  who,  while  her  eye's  rolling. 
Is  lifted  to  rapture,  or  sunk  in  despair. 

VII. 

Bloom,  Theatre,  bloom,  in  the  roseate  blushes 
Of  beauty  illumed  by  a  love-breathing  smile ! 

And  flourish,  ye  pillars,'  as  green  as  the  rushes 
That  pillow  the  nymphs  of  the  Emerald  Isle  ! 

VIII. 

For  dear  is  the  Emerald  Isle  of  the  ocean, 

Whose  daughters  are  fair  as  the  foam  of  the  wave, 

Whose  sons,  unaccustomed  to  rebel  commotion, 
Tho'  joyous,  are  sober — tho'  peaceful,  are  brave. 

IX. 
The  shamrock  their  olive,  sworn  foe  to  a  quarrel, 

Protects  from  the  thunder  and  lightning  of  rows; 
Their  sprig  of  shillelagh  is  nothing  but  laurel, 

Which  flourishes  rapidly  over  their  brows. 

X. 

0  !  soon  shall  they  burst  the  tyrannical  shackles 
Which  each  panting  bosom  indignantly  names, 

Until  not  one  goose  at  the  capital  cackles 

Against  the  grand  question  of  Catholic  claims. 


320  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

XI. 

And  then  shall  each  Paddy,  who  once  on  the  Liffy 
Perchance  held  the  helm  of  some  mackerel-hoy, 

Hold  the  helm  of  the  state,  and  dispense  in  a  jifiy 
More  fishes  than  ever  he  caught  when  a  boy. 

XII. 

And  those  who  now  quit  their  hods,  shovels,  and  barrows, 
In  crowds  to  the  bar  of  some  ale-house  to  flock. 

When  bred  to  our  bar  shall  be  Gibbses  and  Garrows, 
Assume  the  silk  gown,  and  discard  the  smock-frock. 

XIII. 

For  Erin  surpasses  the  daughters  of  Neptune, 
As  Dian  outshines  each  encircling  star  ; 

And  the  spheres  of  the  heavens  could  never  have  kept  tune 
Till  set  to  the  music  of  Erin-go-bragh  ! 


VII. 
THE  REBUILDING. 

BY    R.     S. 


"  Per  audaccs  nova  dithyrambos 

Verba  devolvit,  numerisque  fertur 
Lege  solutis."  IIoeat. 

[Spokeji  by  a  Olendoveer.'] 

I  AM  a  blessed  Glendoveer  } 
'Tis  mine  to  speak,  and  yours  to  hear. 

Midnight,  yet  not  a  nose 
From  Tower-hill  to  Piccadilly  snored  ! 

Midnight,  yet  not  a  nose 

From  Indra  drew  the  essence  of  repose ! 

See  with  what  crimson  fury, 

By  Indra  fann'd,  the  god  of  fire  ascends  the  walls  of 

Drury  ! 

Tops  of  houses,  blue  with  lead, 
Bend  beneath  the  landlord's  tread. 
Master  and  'prentice,  serving-man  and  lord, 
Nailor  and  tailor. 
Grazier  and  brazier, 
Through  streets  and  alleys  pour'd — 
All,  all  abroad  to  gaze, 
And  wonder  at  the  blaze. 
Thick  calf,  fat  foot,  and  slim  knee, 
Mounted  on  roof  and  chimney,^ 
The  mighty  roast,  the  mighty  stew 
14* 


322  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

To  sec ; 

As  if  the  dismal  view 

Were  but  to  them  a  Brentford  jubilee. 

Vainly,  all-radiant  Surya,  sire  of  Phaeton 

(By  Greeks  calfd  Apollo) 

Hollow 

Sounds  from  thy  harp  proceed; 

Combustible  as  reed. 

The  tongue  of  Vulcan  licks  thy  wooden  legs: 

From  Drury's  top,  dissever'd  from  thy  pegs, 

Thou  tumblest, 

Humblest, 

Where  late  thy  bright  effulgence  shone  on  high ; 

While,  by  thy  somerset,  excited,  fly 

Ten  million 

Billion 

Sparks  from  the  pit,  to  gem  the  sable  sky. 


Now  come  the  men  of  fire  to  quench  the  fires : 

To  Russell  Street  see  Globe  and  Atlas  run, 

Hope  gallops  first,  and  second  Sun ; 

On  flying  heel, 

See  Hand-in-Hand 

O'ertake  the  band  ! 

View  with  what  glowing  wheel 

He  nicks 

Phoenix ! 

While  Albion   scampers   from    Bridge  Street,  Black. 

friars — 

Drury  Lane  !     Drury  Lane  ! 

Drury  Lane  !     Drury  Lane  ! 

They  shout  and  they  bellow  again  and  again. 

All,  all  in  vain  ! 


THE   REBUILDING.  6Z6 

Water  turns  steam ; 

Each  blazing  beam 

Hisses  defiance  to  the  eddying  spout ; 

It  seems  but  too  plain  that  nothing  can  put  it  out ! 

Drury  Lane  !   Drury  Lane 

See,  Drury  Lane  expires. 

Pent  in  by  smoke-dried  beams,  twelve  moons  or  more, 
Shorn  of  his  ray, 
Surya  in  durance  lay  : 
The  workmen  heard  him  shout, 
But  thought  it  would  not  pay, 
To  dig  him  out. 
When  lo  !  terrific  Yamen,  lord  of  hell. 
Solemn  as  lead. 
Judge  of  the  dead, 
Sworn  foe  to  witticism, 
By  men  call'd  criticism, 
Came  passing  by  that  way : 
Rise !  cried  the  fiend,  behold  a  sight  of  gladness ! 
Behold  the  rival  theatre ! 
I  've  set  0.  P.  at  her,-* 
Who,  like  a  bull-dog  bold, 
Growls  and  fastens  on  his  hold. 
The  many-headed  rabble  roar  in  madness  ; 

Thy  rival  staggers  :  come  and  spy  her 
Deep  in  the  mud  as  thou  art  in  the  mire. 
So  saying,  in  his  arms  he  caught  the  beaming  one, 
And  crossing  Russell  Street, 
He  placed  him  on  his  feet 
'Neath  Covent  Garden  dome.     Sudden  a  sound. 
As  of  the  bricklayers  of  Babel,  rose : 
Horns,  rattles,  drums,  tin  trumpets,  sheets  of  copper, 
Punches  and  slaps,  thwacks  of  all  sorts  and  sizes. 


324  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

From  the  knobb'd  bludgeon  to  the  taper  switch,^ 
Ran  echoing  round  the  walls  ;  paper  placards 
Blotted  the  lamps,  boots  brown  with  mud  the  benches  : 
A  sea  of  heads  rolld  roaring  in  the  pit; 
On  paper  wings  0.  P.'s 
Reclin'd  in  lettered  ease  ; 
While  shout  and  scofiF, 
Ya!  ya!  off!  off! 
Like  thunderbolt  on  Surja's  ear-drum  fell, 
And  seemed  to  paint 
The  savage  oddities  of  Saint 
Bartholomew  in  hell. 


Tears  dimm'd  the  god  of  light — 

''  Bear  me  back,  Yamen,  from  this  hideous  sight; 

Bear  me  back,  Yamen,  I  grow  sick, 

Oh  !  bury  me  again  in  brick  ; 

Shall  I  on  New  Drurj  tremble, 

To  be  0.  P.'dlike  Kemble? 

No, 

Better  remain  hj  rubbish  guarded, 

Than  thus  hubbubish  groan  placarded ; 

Bear  me  back,  Yamen,  bear  me  quick, 

And  bury  me  again  in  brick." 

Obedient  Yamen 

Answered  "  Amen," 

And  did 

As  he  was  bid. 


There  lay  the  buried  god,  and  Time 

Seemed  to  decree  eternity  of  lime  ; 

But  pity,  like  a  dew-drop,  gently  prest 

Alniighty  Veeshnoo's''  adamantine  breast : 


THE    REBUILDING.  325 

He,  the  preserver,  ardent  still 

To  do  whate'er  he  says  he  Avill, 

From  South-hill  wing'd  his  Avay, 

To  raise  the  drooping  lord  of  day. 

All  earthly  spells  the  busy  one  o'erpower'd ; 

He  treats  with  men  of  all  conditions. 
Poets  and  playei^s,  tradesmen,  and  musicians ; 
Nay,  even  ventures 
To  attack  the  renters, 
Old  and  new : 
A  list  he  gets 
Of  claims  and  debts, 
And  deems  nought  done,  while  aught  remains  to  do. 

Yamen  beheld,  and  withcr"d  at  the  sight ; 

Long  had  he  aim'd  the  sunbeam  to  control, 

For  light  was  hateful  to  his  soul : 

"  Go  on  !"  cried  the  hellish  one,  yellow  with  spite ; 

"  Go  on !"  cried  the  hellish  one,  yellow  with  spleen, 

"Thy  toils  of  the  morning,  like  Ithaca's  queen, 

111  toil  to  undo  every  night." 

Ye  sons  of  song,  rejoice ! 
Veeshnoo  has  stilled  the  jarring  elements, 
The  spheres  hymn  music ; 
Again  the  god  of  day 
Peeps  forth  with  trembling  ray, 
Wakes,  from  their  humid  caves,  the  sleeping  Nine, 
And  pours  at  intervals  a  strain  divine. 
''  I  have  an  iron  yet  in  the  fire,"  cried  Yamen; 
"  The  vollied  flame  rides  in  my  breath, 
My  blast  is  elemental  death ; 
This  hand  shall  tear  your  paper  bonds  to  pieces ; 
Ingress  your  deeds,  assignments,  leases, 


326  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

My  breath  shall  every  line  erase 
Soon  as  I  blow  the  blaze." 

The  lawyers  arc  met  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor, 
And  Yamen"s  visage  grows  blanker  and  blanker; 
The  lawyers  are  met  at  the  Anchor  and  Crown, 
And  Yamen's  cheek  is  a  russety  brown : 
Veeshnoo,  now  thy  work  proceeds ; 
The  solicitor  reads. 
And,  merit  of  merit ! 
Eed  wax  and  green  ferret 
Are  fixed  at  the  foot  of  the  deeds ! 

Yamen  beheld  and  shiver' d; 
His  finger  and  thumb  were  cramp'd ; 
His  ear  by  the  flea  in 't  was  bitten, 
When  he  saw  by  the  lawyer's  clerk  written, 
Sealed  and  delivered, 
Being  first  duly  stamped. 

"  NoAV  for  my  turn  !"  the  demon  cries,  and  blows 

A  blast  of  sulphur  from  his  mouth  and  nose. 

Ah !  bootless  aim  !  the  critic  fiend, 

Sagacious  Yamen,  judge  of  hell. 

Is  judged  in  his  turn  ; 

Parchment  won't  burn ! 

His  schemes  of  vengeance  are  dissolved  in  air, 

Parchment  won't  tear ! ! 

Is  it  not  written  in  the  Himakoot  book, 
(That  mighty  Baly  from  Kehama  took) 
"Who  blows  on  pounce 
Must  the  Swerga  renounce?" 
It  is !  it  is !  Yamen,  thine  hour  is  nigh ; 


THE   REBUILDING.  327 

Like  as  an  eagle  claws  an  asp, 
Veeshnoo  has  caught  him  in  his  mighty  grasp, 
And  huvld  him,  in  spite  of  his  shrieks  and  his  squalls. 
Whizzing  aloft,  like  the  Temple  fountain, 
Three  times  as  high  as  ]\Icru  mountain, 

Which  is 
Ninety-nine  times  as  high  as  St.  Paul's. 

Descending,  he  twisted  like  Levy  the  Jew, 

Who  a  durable  grave  meant 
To  dig  in  the  pavement 

Of  Monument-yard : 
To  earth  by  the  laws  of  attraction  he  flew, 

And  he  fell,  and  he  fell 

To  the  regions  of  hell ; 
Nine  centuries  bounced  he  from  cavei'n  to  rock. 
And  his  head,  as  he  tumbled,  went  nickety-nock. 
Like  a  pebble  in  Carisbrook  well. 

Now  Veeshnoo  turn'd  round  to  a  capering  varlet, 
Array'd  in  blue  and  white  and  scarlet, 
And  cried,  "  Oh  !  brown  of  slipper  as  of  hat ! 
Lend  me,  Harlequin,  thy  bat!"' 
He  seized  the  wooden  sword,  and  smote  the  earth ; 
When  lo !  upstarting  into  birth 
A  fabric,  gorgeous  to  behold, 
Outshone  in  elegance  the  old. 
And  Veeshnoo  saw,  and  cried,  "Hail,  playhouse  mine  !" 
Then,  bending  his  head,  to  Surya  he  said : 

'•  Soon  as  thy  maiden  sister  Di 
Caps  with  her  copper  lid  the  dark  1)1  ue  sky, 
And  through  the  fissures  of  her  clouded  fan 
Peeps  at  the  naughty  monster  man. 


328  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Go  mount  yon  edifice, 
And  show  thy  steady  face 
In  renovated  pride, 
More  bright,  more  glorious  than  before!" 
But  ah  !  coy  Surya  still  felt  a  twinge, 
Still  smarted  from  his  former  singe ; 
And  to  Veeshnoo  replied. 
In  a  tone  rather  gruff, 
"  No,  thank  you  !  one  tumble  's  enough!'* 


VIII. 
DRURY'S    DIRGE. 

BY    LAURA    MATILDA.' 


"You  praise  our  sires:  but  though  they  wrote  with  force 
Their  rhymes  were  vicious,  an<l  their  diction  coarse  : 
"VVc  want  their  strength,  agreed ;  but  we  atone 
For  that,  and  more,  by  sweetness  all  our  own." — GirroBD. 

I. 

Balmy  Zephyrs,  lightly  flitting, 
Shade  me  with  your  azure  wing; 

On  Parnassus'  summit  sitting, 
Aid  me,  Clio,  while  I  sing. 

II. 
Softly  slept  the  dome  of  Drury 

O'er  the  empyreal  crest, 
When  Alecto's  sister- fury 

Softly  slumb'ring  sunk  to  rest. 

III. 
Lo  !  from  Lemnos  limping  lamely, 

Lags  the  lowly  Lord  of  Fire, 
Cytherea  yielding  tamely 

To  the  Cyclops  dark  and  dire. 

IV. 

Clouds  of  amber,  dreams  of  gladness, 
Dulcet  joys  and  sports  of  youth, 

Soon  must  yield  to  haughty  sadness ; 
Mercy  holds  the  veil  to  Truth. 


330  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

V. 

See  Erostratus  the  second 

Fires  again  Diana's  fane; 
By  the  Fates  from  Orcus  beckon' d, 

Clouds  envelope  Drurj  Lane. 

VI. 

Lurid  smoke  and  frank  suspicion 
Hand  in  hand  reluctant  dance : 

While  the  God  fulfils  his  mission, 
Chivalry,  resign  thy  lance. 

VII. 

Hark  !  the  engines  blandly  thunder, 
Fleecy  clouds  dishevell'd  lie, 

And  the  firemen,  mute  with  wonder, 
On  the  son  of  Saturn  cry. 

VIII, 

See  the  bird  of  Ammon  sailing. 
Perches  on  the  engine's  peak, 

And,  the  Eagle  firemen  hailing, 

Soothes  them  with  its  bickering  beak. 

IX. 

Juno  saw,  and  mad  with  malice. 
Lost  the  prize  that  Paris  gave : 

Jealousy's  ensanguined  chalice. 
Mantling  pours  the  orient  wave. 

X. 

Pan  beheld  Patroclus  dying, 
Nox  to  Niobe  was  turn'd ; 

From  Busiris  Bacchus  flying, 
Saw  his  Semele  inurn'd. 


drury's  dirge.  831 


Thus  fell  Drury's  lofty  glory, 

Leveird  viith  the  shuddering  stones ; 

Mars,  ^vith  tresses  black  and  gory. 
Drinks  the  dew  of  pearly  groans. 

XII. 

Hark !  what  soft  Eolian  numbers 
Gem  the  blushes  of  the  morn ! 

Break,  Amphion,  break  your  slumbers, 
Nature's  ringlets  deck  the  thorn. 

XIII. 

Ha !  I  hear  the  strain  erratic 
Dimly  glance  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Raptures  sweet  and  dreams  ecstatic 
Fire  my  everlasting  soul. 

XIV, 

Where  is  Cupid's  crimson  motion? 

Billowy  ecstasy  of  woe, 
Bear  me  straight,  meandering  ocean, 

Where  the  stagnant  torrents  flow. 

XV. 

Blood  in  every  vein  is  gushing. 
Vixen  vengeance  lulls  my  heart ; 

See,  the  Gorgon  gang  is  rushing ! 
Never,  never  let  us  part ! 


IX. 
A  TALE  OF  DRURY  LANE. 


"Thus  he  went  on,  stringing  one  extravagance  upon  another,  In  the  style  his 
books  of  chivalry  had  taught  him,  and  imitating,  as  near  as  he  could,  their  very 
phrase."— Don  Quixote.i 

[To  be  spoken  by  Mr.  KemUe,   in  a  suit  of  the  Black  Prince's 
armour,  borroioed  from  the  Tower.] 

Survey  this  shield,  all  bossy  bright — 
These  cuisses  twain  behold  ! 
Look  on  my  form  in  armour  dight 
Of  steel  inlaid  with  gold  ; 
My  knees  are  stiff  in  iron  buckles, 
Stiff  spikes  of  steel  protect  my  knuckles. 
These  once  belonged  to  sable  prince. 
Who  never  did  in  battle  wince ; 
With  valour  tart  as  pungent  quince, 

He  slew  the  vaunting  Gaul. 
Rest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance, 
While  from  green  curtain  I  advance 
To  yon  foot-lights,  no  trivial  dance,^ 
And  tell  the  town  what  sad  mischance 

Did  Drury  Lane  befall. 

®l)c  Nigljt. 
On  fair  Augusta's  towers  and  trees 
Flitted  the  silent  midnight  breeze, 
Curling  the  foliage  as  it  past 
Which  from  the  moon-tipp'd  plumage  cast 


A   TALE    OF   DRURY    LANE.  o6i 

A  spangled  light,  like  dancing  spray, 

Then  re-assumed  its  still  array ; 

When,  as  night's  lamp  unclouded  hung, 

And  down  its  full  effulgence  flung, 

It  shed  such  soft  and  balmy  power 

That  cot  and  castle,  hall  and  bower. 

And  spire  and  dome,  and  turret  height, 

Appeared  to  slumber  in  the  light. 

From  Henry's  chapel,  Rufus'  hall, 

To  Savoy,  Temple,  and  St.  Paul ; 

From  Knightsbridge,  Pancras,  Camden  Town, 

To  Redriffe,  Shadwell,  Ilorsleydown, 

No  voice  was  heard,  no  eye  unclosed, 

But  all  in  deepest  sleep  reposed. 

They  might  have  thought,  who  gazed  around 

Amid  a  silence  so  profound, 

It  made  the  senses  thrill. 
That  'twas  no  place  inhabited, 
But  some  vast  city  of  the  dead — 

All  was  so  hushed  and  still. 

m]c  Suruing. 
As  Chaos,  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 
Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 
Started  with  terror  and  surprise 
When  light  first  flashed  upon  her  eyes— 
So  London's  sons  in  nightcap  woke, 

In  bed-gown  woke  her  dames ; 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke — 

"  The  playhouse  is  in  flames  !"' 
And,  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 

To  every  window-pane ; 


334  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 
And  Covent  garden  kennels  sport, 

A  bright  ensanguined  drain ; 
Meux's  new  Brewhousc  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  Chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  Patent  Shot  they  sell ; 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall. 
Partakes  the  raj,  with  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  Ticket-Porters'  House  of  Call, 
Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall,* 
Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 

And  Richardson's  Hotel. 
Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide. 
Across  red  Thames's  gleaming  tide. 
To  distant  fields,  the  blaze  was  borne, 
And  daisy  Avhite  and  hoary  thorn 
In  borrow 'd  lustre  seem'd  to  sham 
The  rose  or  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 
To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury"s  mound, 

As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise, 
It  seem'd  that  nations  did  conspire 
To  offer  to  the  God  of  fire 

Some  vast  stupendous  sacrifice! 
The  summon'd  firemen  Avoke  at  call. 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all : 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snooze. 
Each  sought  his  pond'rous  hobnail'd  shoes. 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied, 
Plush  breeches  next,  in  crimson  dyed. 

His  nether  bulk  embraced  ; 
Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue, 


A  TALE  OF  URURY  LANE.  335 

"Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thunder" d  through  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete. 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

Along  the  pavement  paced. 
And  one,  the  leader  of  the  band, 
From  Charing  Cross  along  the  Strand, 
Like  stag  by  beagles  hunted  hard, 
Kan  till  he  stopp'd  at  Vin'gar  Yard.* 
The  burning  badge  his  shoulder  bore, 
The  belt  and  oil-skin  hat  he  wore, 
The  cane  he  had,  his  men  to  bang, 
Showed  foreman  of  the  British  gang — 
His  name  was  Higginbottom.     Now 
'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  jou  how 

The  others  came  in  view  : 
The  Hand-in-Hand-the  race  began,^ 
Then  came  the  Phoenix  and  the  Sun, 
Th'  Exchange,  where  old  insurers  run. 

The  Eagle,  where  the  new  ; 
With  these  came  Rumford,  Bumford,  Cole,- 
Robins  from  Hockley  in  the  Hole, 
Lawson  and  Dawson,  cheek  by  jowl. 

Crump  from  St.  Giles's  Pound  : 
Whitford  and  Mitford  joined  the  train, 
Huggins  and  Muggins  from  Chick  Lane, 
And  Clutterbuck,  who  got  a  sprain 

Before  the  plug  was  found. 
Hobson  and  Jobson  did  not  sleep, 
But  ah  !  no  trophy  could  they  reap. 
For  both  were  in  the  Donjon  Keep 

Of  Bridewell's  gloomy  mound  ! 


REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

E'en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed, 
For  sadder  scene  was  ne'er  disclosed; 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show, 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow. 
And  blazing  rafters  downward  go, 
And  never  halloo  "  Heads  below  !" 

Nor  notice  give  at  all. 
The  firemen  terrified  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow. 

For  feaY  the  roof  should  fall. 
Back,  Robins,  back !  Crump,  stand  aloof ! 
Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 
Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof, 
^or,  lo !  the  blazing  rocking  roof 
Down,  down,  in  thunder  falls ! 
An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke. 
And  o'er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 
Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud, 
Conceal' d  them  from  th'  astonish' d  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  clear'd, 
When,  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  uprear'd. 
Gradual  a  moving  head  appear' d. 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
'Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew, 
Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 
"A  Muggins  !  to  the  rescue,  ho !" 

And  pour'd  the  hissing  tide : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain. 
For,  rallying  but  to  fall  again. 

He  totter' d,  sunk,  and  died ! 
Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell. 
To  succour  one  they  loved  so  well? 


A    tali:    of    DRUllY    LANE.  337 

Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire), 

His  brother  chief  to  save ; 
But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Served  but  to  share  his  grave ! 
'Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphry  stench  and  boiling  drench 
Destroying  sight  o'erwhelm'd  him  quite, 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved, 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved ; 
"Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps, 
'•You,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps,' 
"  Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps? 
"A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  !  — 
"  What  are  they  fear'd  on?  fools  !   'od  rot  'em  !" 
Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 

yll)c   llcyiiuil. 
Peace  to  his  soul !  new  prospects  bloom. 
And  toil  rebuilds  what  fires  consume ! 
Eat  we  and  drink  we,  be  our  ditty, 
"  Joy  to  the  managing  committee  !'"' 
Eat  we  and  drink  we,  join  to  rum 
Koast  beef  and  pudding  of  the  plum ; 
Forth  from  thy  nook,  John  Horner,  come, 
With  bread  of  ginger  brown  thy  thumb, 

For  this  is  Drury's  gay  day  ; 
Roll,  roll  thy  hoop,  and  twirl  thy  tops, 
And  buy,  to  glad  thy  smiling  chops, 
Crisp  parliament  with  lollypops, 

And  fingers  of  the  Lady 
15 


338  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Didst  mark,  how  toil'd  the  busy  train, 
From  morn  to  eve,  till  Drury  Lane 
Leap'd  like  a  roebuck  from  the  plain  ? 
Ropes  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  again, 

And  nimble  workmen  trod ; 
To  realise  bold  Wjatt's  plan 
Rush'd  many  a  howling  Irishman; 
Loud  clatter' d  many  a  porter-can, 
And  many  a  ragamuffin  clan 

With  trowel  and  with  hod. 

Drury  revives !  her  rounded  pate 
Is  blue,  is  heavenly  blue  with  slate ; 
She  "wings  the  midway  air"  elate, 

As  magpie,  crow,  or  chough ; 
White  paint  her  modish  visage  smears, 
Yellow  and  pointed  are  her  ears. 
No  pendant  portico  appears 
Dangling  beneath,  for  Whitbread's  shears^ 

Have  cut  the  bauble  off 

Yes,  she  exalts  her  stately  head  ; 

And,  but  that  solid  bulk  outspread, 

Opposed  you  on  your  onward  tread. 

And  posts  and  pillars  warranted 

That  all  was  true  that  Wyatt  said. 

You  might  have  deem'd  her  walls  so  thick 

Were  not  composed  of  stone  or  brick, 

But  all  a  phantom,  all  a  trick. 

Of  brain  disturb' d  and  fancy  sick, 

So  high  she  soars,  so  vast,  so  quick ! 


X. 

JOHNSON'S   GHOST. 


[Ohosi  of  Dr.  Johnson  rises  from  trap-door  P.  S.,  and  Ghost  of 
BoswELL  from  trap-door  0.  P.  The  latter  bows  respectfully  to 
the  House,  and  obsequiously  to  the  Doctor's  Ghost,  and  retires.] 

Doctor's  Ghost  loquitur. 

That  which  -was  organised  by  the  moral  ability  of  one 
has  been  executed  by  the  physical  efforts  of  many,  and 
Drury  Lane  Theatre  is  now  complete.  Of  that 
part  behind  the  curtain,  Avhich  has  not  yet  been  destined 
to  glow  beneath  the  brush  of  the  varnisher,  or  viprate  to 
the  hammer  of  the  carpenter,  little  is  thought  by  the 
public,  and  little  need  be  said  by  the  committee.  Truth, 
however,  is  not  to  be  sacrificed  for  the  accommodation 
of  either ;  and  he  who  should  pronounce  that  our  edifice 
has  received  its  final  embellishment  would  be  dissemin- 
ating falsehood  without  incurring  favour,  and  risking 
the  disgrace  of  detection  without  participating  the 
advantage  of  success. 

Professions  lavishly  effused  and  parsimoniously  veri- 
fied are  alike  inconsistent  with  the  precepts  of  innate 
rectitude  and  the  practice  of  external  policy  :  let  it  not 
then  be  conjectured,  that  because  we  are  unassuming, 
we  are  imbecile  ;  that  forbearance  is  any  indication  of 
despondency,  or  humility  of  demerit.  He  that  is  the 
most  assured  of  success  will  make  the  fewest  appeals  to 
favour,  and  where  nothing  is  claimed  that  is  undue, 


340  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

nothing  that  is  due  will  be  withheld.  A  swelling  open- 
ing is  too  often  succeeded  by  an  insignificant  conclusion. 
Parturient  mountains  have  ere  now  produced  muscipular 
abortions  ;  and  the  auditor  who  compares  incipient  gran- 
deur with  final  vulgarity  is  reminded  of  the  pious  hawkers 
of  Constantinople,  who  solemnly  perambulate  her  streets, 
exclaiming,  "  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet — figs  !" 

Of  many  who  think  themselves  wise,  and  of  some  who 
are  thought  wise  by  others,  the  exertions  are  directed  to 
the  revival  of  mouldering  and  obscure  dramas ;  to  en- 
deavours to  exalt  that  which  is  now  rare  only  because  it 
was  always  worthless,  and  whose  deterioration,  while  it 
condemned  it  to  living  obscurity,  by  a  strange  obliquity 
of  moral  perception  constitutes  its  title  to  posthumous 
renown.  To  embody  the  flying  colours  of  folly,  to 
arrest  evanescence,  to  give  to  bubbles  the  globular  con- 
sistency as  well  as  form,  to  exhibit  on  the  stage  the  pie- 
bald denizen  of  the  stable,  and  the  half-reasoning  parent 
of  combs,  to  display  the  brisk  locomotion  of  Columbine, 
or  the  tortuous  attitudinising  of  Punch ; — these  are  the 
occupations  of  others,  whose  ambition,  limited  to  the 
applause  of  unintellectual  fatuity,  is  too  innocuous  for 
the  application  of  satire,  and  too  humble  for  the  incite- 
ment of  jealousy. 

Our  refectory  will  be  found  to  contain  every  species 
of  fruit,  from  the  cooling  nectarine  and  luscious  peach 
to  the  puny  pippin  and  the  noxious  nut.  There  In- 
dolence may  repose,  and  Inebriety  revel ;  and  the  spruce 
apprentice,  rushing  in  at  second  account,  may  there 
chatter  with  impunity ;  debarred,  by  a  barrier  of  brick 
and  mortar,  from  marring  that  scenic  interest  in  others, 
which  nature  and  education  have  disqualified  him  from 
comprehending  himself 

Permanent  stage-doors  we  have  none.     That  which  is 


JOHNSON'S   GHOST.  341 

permanent  cannot  be  removed,  for,  if  removed,  it  soon 
ceases  to  be  permanent.  What  stationary  absurdity  can 
vie  with  the  ligneous  barricado,  which,  decorated  with 
frappant  and  tintinnabulant  appendages,  now  serves  as 
the  entrance  of  the  lowly  cottage,  and  now  as  the  exit 
of  a  lady's  bedchamber ;  at  one  time,  insinuating  plastic 
Harlequin  into  a  butcher's  shop,  and,  at  another,  yawn- 
ing as  a  flood-gate,  to  precipitate  the  Cyprians  of  St. 
Giles's  into  the  embraces  of  ;Macheath.  To  elude  this 
glaring  absurdity,  to  give  each  respective  mansion  the 
door  which  the  carpenter  would  doubtless  have  given, 
we  vary  our  portal  Avith  the  varying  scene,  passing  from 
deal  to  mahogany,  and  from  mahogany  to  oak,  as  the 
opposite  claims  of  cottage,  palace,  or  castle,  may  appear 
to  require. 

Amid  the  general  hum  of  gratulation  which  flatters 
us  in  front,  it  is  fit  that  some  regard  should  be  paid  to 
the  murmurs  of  despondence  that  assail  us  in  the  rear. 
They,  as  I  have  elsewhere  expressed  it,  "who  live  to 
please,"'  should  not  have  their  own  pleasures  entirely 
overboiled.  The  children  of  Thespis  are  general  in 
their  censures  of  the  architect,  in  having  placed  the 
locality  of  exit  at  such  a  distance  from  the  oily  irradia- 
tors which  now  dazzle  the  eyes  of  him  who  addresses 
you.  I  am,  cries  the  Queen  of  Terrors,  robbed  of  my 
fair  proportions.  When  the  king-killing  Thane  hints  to 
the  breathless  auditory  the  murders  he  means  to  per- 
petrate, in  the  castle  of  Macduff,  "  ere  his  purpose  cool ;" 
so  vast  is  the  interval  he  has  to  travel  before  he  can 
escape  from  the  stage,  that  his  purpose  has  even  time  to 
freeze.  Your  condition,  cries  the  Muse  of  Smiles,  is 
hard,  but  it  is  cygnet's  down  in  comparison  with  mine. 
The  peerless  peer  of  capers  and  congees'  has  laid  it 
down  as  a  rule,  that  the  best  good  thing  uttered  by  the 


342  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

morning  visitor  should  conduct  him  rapidly  to  the  door- 
way, last  impressions  vying  in  durability  with  first. 
But  when,  on  this  boarded  elongation,  it  falls  to  my  lot 
to  say  a  good  thing,  to  ejaculate,  "keep  moving,"  or 
to  chant,  "  kic  hoc  horum  genitivo^^^  many  are  the 
moments  that  must  elapse,  ere  I  can  hide  myself  from 
public  vision  in  the  recesses  of  0.  P.  or  P.  S. 

To  objections  like  these,  captiously  urged  and  queru- 
lously maintained,  it  is  time  that  equity  should  conclu- 
sively reply.  Deviation  from  scenic  propriety  has  only 
to  vituperate  itself  for  the  consequences  it  generates. 
Let  the  actor  consider  the  line  of  exit  as  that  line  beyond 
which  he  should  not  soar  in  quest  of  spurious  applause : 
let  him  reflect,  that  in  proportion  as  he  advances  to  the 
lamps,  he  recedes  from  nature ;  that  the  truncheon  of 
Hotspur  acquires  no  additional  charm  from  encountering 
the  cheek  of  beauty  in  the  stage-box,  and  that  the  bra- 
vura of  Mandane  may  produce  effect,  although  the 
throat  of  her  who  warbles  it  should  not  overhang  the 
orchestra.  The  Jove  of  the  modern  critical  Olympus, 
Lord  Mayor  of  the  theatric  sky,''  has,  ex  cathedra, 
asserted,  that  a  natural  actor  looks  upon  the  audience 
part  of  the  theatre  as  the  third  side  of  the  chamber  he 
inhabits.  Surely,  of  the  third  wall  thus  fancifully 
erected,  our  actors  should,  by  ridicule  or  reason,  be 
withheld  from  knocking  their  heads  against  the  stucco. 

Tune  forcibly  reminds  me,  that  all  things  which  have 
a  limit  must  be  brought  to  a  conclusion.  Let  me,  ere 
that  conclusion  arrives,  recall  to  your  recollection,  that 
the  pillars  which  rise  on  either  side  of  me,  blooming  in 
virid  antiquity,  like  two  massy  evergreens,  had  yet 
slumbered  in  their  native  quarry,  but  for  the  ardent 
exertions  of  the  individual  who  called  them  into  life :  to 
his  never-slumbering  talents  you  are  indebted  for  wuat- 


jounson's  ghost.  343 

ever  pleasure  this  haunt  of  the  Muses  is  calculated  to 
afford.  If,  ill  defiance  of  chaotic  malevolence,  the 
destroyer  of  the  temple  of  Diana  yet  survives  in  the 
name  of  Erostratus,  surely  we  may  confidently  predict, 
that  the  rebuilder  of  the  temple  of  Apollo  will  stand 
recorded  to  distant  posterity  in  that  of— Samuel  Whit- 
bread. 


XI. 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  INCENDIARY. 

BY    THE    HON.    W.    S. 


Formosam  resonare  doces  Amaryllida  sylvas Virgii.. 

Scene  draws,  and  discovers  a  Lady  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Enter  Philandee. 

PHILANDER 

I. 

Sobriety,  cease  to  be  sober, ^ 

Cease  Labour,  to  dig  and  to  delve  ; 
All  hail  to  this  tenth  of  October, 

One  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twelve  !- 
Ha  !  whom  do  my  peepers  remark  ? 

'Tis  Hebe  with  Jupiter's  jug ; 
0  no,  'tis  the  pride  of  the  Park, 

Fair  Ladj  Elizabeth  IMugg. 

II. 
"Why,  beautiful  nymph,  do  you  close 

The  curtain  that  fringes  your  eye  ? 
Why  veil  in  the  clouds  of  repose 

The  sun  that  should  brighten  our  sky ! 
Perhaps  jealous  Venus  has  oiled 

Your  hair  with  some  opiate  drug, 
Not  choosing  her  charms  should  be  foiled 

By  Lady  Elizabeth  IMugg. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    INCENDIARY.  345 

III. 

But  all !  -why  awaken  the  blaze 

Those  bright-burning  glasses  contain, 
"Whose  lens  with  concentrated  rajs 

Proved  fatal  to  old  Drurj  Lane? 
'Twas  all  accidental,  they  cry — 

Away  with  the  flimsy  humbug  ! 
'Twas  fired  by  a  flash  from  the  eye 

Of  Lady  Elizabeth  Mugg. 

lY. 

Thy  glance  can  in  us  raise  a  flame, 

Then  why  should  old  Drury  be  free  ? 
Our  doom  and  its  doom  are  the  same, 

Both  subject  to  beauty's  decree. 
No  candles  the  workmen  consumed. 

When  deep  in  the  ruins  they  dug  ; 
Thy  flash  still  their  progress  illumed, 

Sweet  Lady  Elizabeth  Mugg. 

V. 
Thy  face  a  rich  fire-place  displays  : 

The  mantel-piece  marble — thy  brows; 
Thine  eyes  are  the  bright  beammg  blaze; 

Thy  bib,  which  no  trespass  allows, 
The  fender's  tall  barrier  marks ; 

Thy  tippet's  the  fire-quelling  rug, 
Which  serves  to  extinguish  the  sparks 

Of  Lady  Elizabeth  ^Mugg. 

VI. 

The  Countess  a  lily  appears, 

Whose  tresses  the  pearl-drops  emboss ; 
The  Marchioness,  blooming  in  years, 

A  rose-bud  enveloped  in  moss; 


846  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

But  thou  art  the  sweet  passion-flower, 
For  who  -would  not  slavery  hug, 

To  pass  but  one  exquisite  hour, 
In  the  arms  of  Elizabeth  Mugg? 

VII. 

When  at  court,  or  some  Dowager's  rout. 
Her  diamond  aigrette  meets  our  view. 

She  looks  like  a  glow-worm  dressed  out. 
Or  tulips  bespangled  with  dew. 

Her  two  lips  denied  to  man's  suit, 
Are  shared  with  her  favourite  Pug ; 

What  lord  would  not  change  with  the  brute, 


VIII. 

Could  the  stage  be  a  large  vis-a-vis, 

Keserved  for  the  polished  and  great. 
Where  each  happy  lover  might  see 

The  nymph  he  adores  tete-a-tete  ; 
No  longer  I  'd  gaze  on  the  ground, 

And  the  load  of  despondency  lug, 
For  I  'd  book  myself  all  the  year  round. 

To  ride  with  the  sweet  Lady  Mugg. 

IX. 
Yes,  she  in  herself  is  a  host, 

And  if  she  were  here  all  alone. 
Our  house  might  nocturnally  boast 

A  bumper  of  fashion  and  ton. 
Again  should  it  burst  in  a  blaze, 

In  vain  would  they  ply  Congreve's  plug,^ 
For  nought  could  extinguish  the  rays 

From  the  glance  of  divine  Lady  Mugg. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL   INCENDIARY.  347 

X. 
O  could  I  as  Harlequin  frisk, 

And  thou  be  my  Columbine  fair, 
My  Avand  should  with  one  magic  whisk 

Transport  us  to  Hanover  Square  : 
St.  Georo-e's  should  lend  us  its  shrine, 


U2;, 


O' 


The  parson  his  shoulders  might  shr 

But  a  license  should  force  him  to  join 

My  hand  in  the  hand  of  my  INIugg. 

IX. 

Court-plaster  the  weapons  should  tip, 

By  Cupid  shot  down  from  above. 
Which,  cut  into  spots  for  thy  lip, 

Should  still  barb  the  arrows  of  love. 
The  God  who  from  others  flies  quick, 

With  us  should  be  slow  as  a  slug ; 
As  close  as  a  leech  he  should  stick 

To  me  and  Elizabeth  Mugg. 


X. 

For  time  would,  with  us,  'stead  of  sand, 

Put  filings  of  steel  in  his  glass, 
To  dry  up  the  blots  of  his  hand. 

And  spangle  life's  page  as  they  pass. 
Since  all  flesh  is  grass  ere  'tis  hay.* 

0  may  I  in  clover  live  snug. 
And  when  old  Time  mows  me  away. 

Be  stacked  with  defunct  Lady  Mugg ! 


XII. 
FIRE  AND   ALE. 

BY    M.    G.    L. 


Omnia  transformat  sesc  in  miracula  rerum. — Viegil. 

My  palate  is  parched  with  Pierian  thirst, 

Away  to  Parnassus  I'm  beckoned  ; 
List,  warriors  and  dames,  Avhile  my  lay  is  rehearsed, 
I  sing  of  the  singe  of  Miss  Drury  the  first, 

And  the  birth  of  Miss  Drury  the  second. 

The  Fire  King,  one  day,  rather  amorous  felt ; 

He  mounted  his  hot  co^jper  filly ; 
His  breeches  and  boots  were  of  tin,  and  the  belt 
"Was  made  of  cast  iron,  for  fear  it  should  melt 

AYith  the  heat  of  the  copper  colt's  belly. 

Sure  never  was  skin  half  so  scalding  as  his  ! 

"When  an  infant  'twas  equally  horrid ; 
For  the  water,  when  he  was  baptized,  gave  a  fizz, 
And  bubbled  and  simmer'd  and  started  off,  whizz  ! 

As  soon  as  it  sprinkled  its  forehead. 

0 !  then  there  was  glitter  and  fire  in  each  eye, 

For  two  living  coals  were  the  symbols ; 
His  teeth  were  calcined,  and  his  tongue  was  so  dry, 
It  rattled  against  them,  as  though  you  should  try 
To  play  the  piano  in  thimbles. 


FIRE    AND    ALE.  849 

From  his  nostrils  a  lava  sulphureous  flows, 

Which  scorches  wherever  it  lingers ; 
A  snivelling  fellow  he's  call'd  by  his  foes, 
For  he  can't  raise  his  paw  up  to  blow  his  red  nose, 

For  fear  it  should  blister  his  fingers. 

His  wig  is  of  flames  curling  over  his  head, 

"Well  powder'd  with  white  smoking  ashes ; 
He  drinks  gunpowder  tea,  melted  sugar  of  lead, 
Cream  of  tartar,  and  dines  on  hot  spice  gingerbread. 
Which  black  from  the  oven  he  gnashes. 

Each  fire-nymph  his  kiss  from  her  countenance  shields, 

'T would  soon  set  her  cheek  bone  a  frying; 
He  spit  in  the  Tenter-Ground  near  Spital-ficlds, 
And  the  hole  that  it  burnt,  and  the  chalk  that  it  yields, 
Make  a  capital  lime-kiln  for  drying. 

When  he  open'd  his  mouth,  out  there  issued  a  blast, 

(Nota  bene,  I  do  not  mean  swearing,) 
But  the  noise  that  it  made,  and  the  heat  that  it  cast, 
I  've  heard  it  from  those  who  have  seen  it,  surpass'd 
A  shot  manufactory  flaring. 

He  blazed,  and  he  blazed,  as  he  gallop'd  to  snatch 

His  bride,  little  dreaming  of  danger  ; 
His  Avhip  Avas  a  torch,  and  his  spur  was  a  match, 
And  over  the  horse's  left  eye  was  a  patch. 
To  keep  it  from  burning  the  manger. 

And  who  is  the  housemaid  he  means  to  enthral 

In  his  cinder-producing  alliance  ? 
'Tis  Drury-Lanc  Playhouse,  so  wide,  and  so  tall, 
Who,  like  other  combustible  ladies,  must  fall. 

If  she  cannot  set  sparks  at  defiance. 


850  REJECTED   ADDEESSES. 

On  his  warming-pan  kneepan  he  clattering  roll'd, 

And  the  housemaid  his  hand  would  have  taken, 
But  his  hand,  like  his  passion,  was  too  hot  to  hold, 
And  she  soon  let  it  go,  but  her  new  ring  of  gold 
All  melted,  like  butter  or  bacon ! 

Oh !  then  she  look'd  sour,  and  indeed  well  she  might, 

For  Vinegar  Yard  was  before  her; 
But,  spite  of  her  shrieks,  the  ignipotent  knight, 
Enrobing  the  maid  in  a  flame  of  gas  light, 

To  the  skies  in  a  sky-rocket  bore  her. 

Look !  look !  'tis  the  Ale  King,  so  stately  and  starch, 

Whose  votaries  scorn  to  be  sober ; 
He  pops  from  his  vat,  like  a  cedar  or  larch  ; 
Brown-stout  is  his  doublet,  he  hops  in  his  march, 

And  froths  at  the  mouth  in  October. 

His  spear  is  a  spigot,  his  shield  is  a  bung ; 

He  taps  where  the  housemaid  no  more  is, 
When  lo !  at  his  magical  bidding,  upsprung 
A  second  Miss  Drury,  tall,  tidy  and  young, 

And  sported  in  loco  sororis. 

Back,  lurid  in  air,  for  a  second  regale, 

The  Cinder  King,  hot  with  desire, 
I'o  Bridges  Street  hied ;  but  the  Monarch  of  Ale, 
With  uplifted  spigot  and  faucet,  and  pail. 

Thus  chided  the  Monarch  of  Fire : 

"  Vile  tyrant,  beware  of  the  ferment  I  brew; 

I  rule  the  roast  here,  dash  the  wig  o'  me  ! 
If,  spite  of  your  marriage  with  Old  Drury,  you 
Come  here  with  your  tinderbox,  courting  the  New, 

I  '11  have  you  indicted  for  bigamy  !" 


XIII. 

PLAYHOUSE  MUSINGS. 

BY    S.    T.    C. 


Hie  velut  fldis  arcana  sodalibus  olim 

Credebat  libris  ;  neque  si  male  cesserat,  usquam 

Decurrens  alio,  neque  si  bene.  Hon. 

My  pensive  Public,  wherefore  look  you  sad  ? 
I  had  a  grandmother,  she  kept  a  donkey 
To  carry  to  the  mart  her  crockery  Avare, 
And  when  that  donkey  look'd  mo  in  the  face. 
His  face  was  sad  !  and  you  are  sad,  my  Public ! 

Joy  should  be  yours  :  this  tenth  day  of  October 
Again  assembles  us  in  Drury  Lane. 
Long  wept  my  eye  to  see  the  timber  planks 
That  hid  our  ruins ;  many  a  day  I  cried. 
Ah  me  !  I  fear  they  never  will  rebuild  it ! 
Till  on  one  eve,  one  joyful  Monday  eve. 
As  along  Charles  Street  I  prepared  to  walk, 
Just  at  the  corner,  by  the  pastrycook's, 
I  heard  a  trowel  tick  against  a  brick. 
I  look"d  me  up,  and  straight  a  parapet 
Uprose  at  least  seven  inches  o'er  the  pianks. 
Joy  to  thee,  Drury  !  to  myself  I  said : 
'He  of  Backfriars'  Road,  who  hymned  thy  downfall 
In  loud  Hosannahs,  and  who  prophesied 
That  flames,  like  those  from  prostrate  Solyma, 


352  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Would  scorch  the  hand  that  ventured  to  rebuild  thee, 
Has  proved  a  lying  prophet.     From  that  hour, 
As  leisure  oflfer'd,  close  to  Mr.  Spring's 
Box-office  door,  I've  stood  and  ejed  the  builders. 
They  had  a  plan  to  render  less  their  labours ; 
"Workmen  in  olden  times  would  mount  a  ladder 
With  hodded  heads,  but  these  stretched  forth  a  pole 
From  the  wairs  pinnacle,  they  placed  a  pulley 
Athwart  the  pole,  a  rope  athwart  the  pulley ; 
To  this  a  basket  dangled ;  mortar  and  bricks 
Thus  freighted,  swung  securely  to  the  top, 
And  in  the  empty  basket  workmen  twain 
Precipitate,  unhurt,  accosted  earth. 

Oh !  'twas  a  goodly  sound,  to  hear  the  people 
Who  watch'd  the  Avork,  express  their  various  thoughts ! 
While  some  believed  it  never  would  be  finish' d, 
Some,  on  the  contrary,  believed  it  would. 

I've  heard  our  front  that  faces  Drury  Lane 
Much  criticised ;  they  say  'tis  vulgar  brick- work, 
A  mimic  manufactory  of  floor-cloth. 
One  of  the  morning  papers  wish'd  that  front 
Cemented  like  the  front  in  Brydges  Street ; 
As  now  it  looks,  they  call  it  Wyatt's  Mermaid, 
A  handsome  woman  with  a  fish's  tail. 

White  is  the  steeple  of  St.  Bride's  in  Fleet  Street : 
The  Albion  (as  its  name  denotes)  is  white ; 
Morgan  and  Saunders'  shop  for  chairs  and  tables 
Gleams  like  a  snow-ball  in  the  setting  sun  ; 
White   is  Whitehall.      But  not   St.   Bride^s  in  Fleet 
Street, 


PLAYHOUSE   MUSINGS.  353 

The  spotless  Albion,  Morgan,  no,  nor  Saunders, 
Nor  Avhitc  Whitehall,  is  Avhite  as  Drury's  face. 

=0h,  jMr.  \Miitbread !  fie  upon  you,  sir  ! 
I  think  you  should  have  built  a  colonnade ; 
"When  tender  Beauty,  looking  for  her  coach, 
Protrudes  her  gloveless  hand,  perceives  the  shower 
And  draAvs  the  tippet  closer  round  her  throat. 
Perchance  her  coach  stands  half  a  dozen  oflf. 
And,  ere  she  mounts  the  step,  the  oozing  mud 
Soaks  through  her  pale  kid  slipper.     On  the  morrow, 
She  coughs  at  breakfast,  and  her  gruff  papa 
Cries,  "There  you  go!  this  comes  of  playhouses!" 
To  build  no 'portico  is  penny  wise  : 
Heaven  grant  it  prove  not  in  the  end  pound  foolish  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Drury  !  Queen  of  Theatres  1 
What  is  the  Regency  in  Tottenham  Street, 
The  Royal  Amphitheatre  of  Arts, 
Astley's,  Olympic,  or  the  Sans  Pareil, 
Compared  with  thee  ?     Yet  when  I  view  thee  push'd 
Back  from  the  narrow  street  that  christened  thee, 
I  know  not  why  they  call  thee  Drury  Lane. 

Amid  the  freaks  that  modern  flishion  sanctions, 
It  grieves  me  much  to  see  live  animals 
Brought  on  the  stage.     Grimaldi  has  his  rabbit, 
Laurent  his  cat,  and  Bradbury  his  pig ; 
Fie  on  such  tricks  !  Johnson,  the  machinist 
Of  former  Drury,  imitated  life 
Quite  to  the  life.     The  Elephant  in  Blue  Beard, 
Stuff  d  by  his  hand,  wound  round  his  lithe  proboscis, 
As  spruce  as  he  who  roar'd  in  Padmanaba.-* 
Nought  born  on  earth  should  die.     On  hackney  stands 


354  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

I  reverence  the  coachman  who  cries  "  Gee," 
And  spares  the  lash.     When  I  behold  a  spider 
Prey  on  a  flj,  a  magpie  on  a  worm, 
Or  view  a  butcher  with  horn-handled  knife 
Slaughter  a  tender  lamb  as  dead  as  mutton, 
Indeed,  indeed,  I'm  very,  very  sick! 

[Exit  hastily. 


XIV. 

DRURY  LANE  HUSTINGS. 

^  Nflu   ?l}alfpcnn»  3SallaU. 

BY    A    riC-NIC     POET. 

This  is  the  very  age  of  promise :  To  promise  is  most  courtly  and  fashionable. 
Performance  is  a  kind  of  will  or  testament,  which  argues  a  great  sickness  in  hie 
judgment  that  makes  it TmoN  op  Athens. 


[To  he  sung  by  Mr.  Johnstoxe  in  the  character  of  Loonky 

M'TWOLTER.] 

I. 
Mr.  Jack,  your  address,  says  the  Prompter  to  me. 
So  I  gave  him  my  card — no,  that  a'nt  it,  says  he ; 
'Tis  your  public  address.     Oh  !  says  I,  never  fear, 
If  address  you  are  bother'd  for,  only  look  here. 

[Pats  on  hat  afectedly. 

Tol  de  rol  lol,  &c. 
II. 
"With  Drury's  for  sartin  we  '11  never  have  done, 
AVe  've  built  up  another,  and  yet  there's  but  one; 
The  old  one  was  best,  yet  I  'd  say,  if  I  durst. 
The  new  one  is  better — the  last  is  the  first. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 
III. 
These  pillars  are  call'd  by  a  Frenchified  word, 
A  something  that's  jumbled  of  antique  and  verd; 
The  boxes  may  show  us  some  verdant  antiques. 
Some  old  harridans  who  beplaster  their  cheeks. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 


356  EEJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

IV. 
Only  look  how  high  Tragedy,  Comedy,  sticlc, 
Lest  their  rivals,  the  horses,  should  give  them  a  kick ! 
If  you  will  not  descend  when  our  authors  beseech  ye, 
You  il  stop  there  for  life,  for  I  'm  sure  they  can  't 
reach  ye. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 

V. 

Each  one  shilling  god  within  the  reach  Oi.  a  iiod  is, 
And  plain  are  the  charms  of  each  gallery  goddess — 
You,  Brandy-faced  Moll,  don't  he  looking  askew. 
When  I  talked  of  a  goddess  I  didn't  mean  you. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 


Our  stage  is  so  prettily  fashion'd  for  viewing, 
The  whole  house  can  see  Avhat  the  whole  house  is  doing : 
'Tis  just  like  the  Hustings,  we  kick  up  a  bother ; 
But  saying  is  one  thing,  and  doing's  another. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 

VII. 

We  've  many  new  houses,  and  some  of  them  rum  ones, 
But  the  newest  of  all  is  the  new  House  of  Commons ; 
'Tis  a  rickety  sort  of  a  banthng,  I  'm  told. 
It  Avill  die  of  old  age  when  it 's  seven  years  old. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 


As  I  don't  know  on  whom  the  election  will  fall, 
I  move  in  return  for  returning  them  all ; 
But  for  fear  Mr.  Speaker  my  meaning  should  miss. 
The  house  that  I  wish  'em  to  sit  in  is  this. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 


DraiiiY  LANE  iiusTiNas.  357 

IX. 

Let  us  cheer  our  great  Commoner,  but  for  whose  aid 
We  all  should  have  gone  -with  short  commons  to  bed ; 
And  since  he  has  saved  all  the  fat  from  the  fire, 
I  move  that  the  house  be  call'd  Whitbread's  Entire.' 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 


XV. 
ARCHITECTURAL  ATOMS. 

TRANSLATED    BY    DR.    B. 


Lege,  Dick,  Lege  I— Joseph  ANPKEwa 
To  he  recited  by  the  Translator's  Son. 

Away,  fond  dupes  !  who,  smit  with  sacred  lore, 
Mosaic  dreams  in  Genesis  explore, 
Doat  with  Copernicus,  or  darkling  stray 
With  Newton,  Ptomlej,  or  Tjcho  Brahe ! 
To  you  I  sing  not,  for  I  sing  of  truth, 
Primeval  systems,  and  creation's  youth ; 
Such  as  of  old,  with  magic  wisdom  fraught, 
Inspired  Lucretius  to  the  Latians  taught. 

I  sing  how  casual  bricks,  in  airy  climb, 
Encounter'd  casual  cow-hair,  casual  lime ; 
How  rafters,  borne  through  wondering  clouds  elate, 
Kiss'd  in  their  slope  blue  elemental  slate, 
Clasp'd  solid  beams  in  chance-directed  fury, 
A.nd  gave  to  birth  our  renovated  Drury. 

Thee,  son  of  Jove  !  Avhose  sceptre  was  confess' d, 
Where  fair  ^olia  springs  from  Tethys'  breast ; 
Thence  on  Olympus,  'mid  celestials  placed, 
God  of  the  Winds,  and  Ether's  boundless  waste — 
Thee  I  invoke  !  Oh  piiff  my  bold  design,  [line; 

Prompt  the  bright  thought,  and  swell  th'  harmonious 


ARCHITECTURAL   ATOMS.  859 

Uphold  my  pinions,  and  mj  verse  inspire 
With  Winsor's  ^  patent  gas,  or  wind  of  fire, 
In  whose  pure  blaze  thy  embryo  form  enroll'd, 
The  dark  enlightens,  and  cnchafes  the  cold. 

But,  while  I  court  thy  gifts,  be  mine  to  shun 
The  deprecated  prize  Ulysses  won  ; 
Who,  sailing  homeward  from  the  breezy  shore. 
The  prison'd  winds  in  skins  of  parchment  bore. 
Speeds  the  fleet  bark  till  o'er  the  billows  green 
The  azure  heights  of  Ithaca  are  seen ; 
But  while  with  favouring  gales  her  way  she  wins, 
His  curious  comrades  ope  the  mystic  skins ; 
When,  lo  !  the  rescued  winds,  with  boisterous  sweep, 
Roar  to  the  clouds  and  lash  the  rocking  deep ; 
Heaves  the  smote  vessel  in  the  howling  blast. 
Splits  the  stretch" d  sail,  and  cracks  the  tottering  mast. 
Launch"d  on  a  plank,  the  buoyant  hero  rides, 
Where  ebon  Afric  stems  the  sable  tides, 
While  his  duck'd  comrades  o'er  the  ocean  fly, 
And  sleep  not  in  the  whole  skins  they  untie. 

So,  when  to  raise  the  wand  some  lawyer  tries, 
ISIysterious  skins  of  parchment  meet  our  eyes ; 
On  speeds  the  smiling  suit — "  Pleas  of  our  Lord 
The  King"  shine  sable  on  the  wide  record; 
Nods  the  prunella'd  bar,  attorneys  smile. 
And  syren  jurors  flatter  to  beguile  ; 
Till  stript — nonsuited — he  is  doomed  to  toss 
In  legal  shipwreck  and  redecmless  loss  ! 
Lucky,  if,  like  Ulysses,  he  can  keep. 
His  head  above  the  waters  of  the  deep. 

^olian  monarch  !   Emperor  of  Puflfs  ! 
We  modern  sailors  dread  not  thy  rebuffs ; 


860  BEJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

See  to  thj  golden  shore  promiscuous  come 

Quacks  for  the  lame,  the  blind,  the  deaf,  the  dumb ; 

Fools  are  their  bankers — a  prolific  line, 

And  every  mortal  malady '  s  a  mine. 

Each  sly  Sangrado,  with  his  poisonous  pill, 

Flies  to  the  printer's  devil  with  his  bill, 

Whose  Midas  touch  can  gild  his  ass's  ears, 

And  load  a  knave  with  folly's  rich  ai-rears. 

And  lo  !  a  second  miracle  is  thine, 

For  sloe-juice  water  stands  transformed  to  wine. 

Where  Day  and  Martin's  patent  blacking  roll'd, 

Burst  from  the  vase  Pactolian  streams  of  gold ; 

Laugh  the  sly  wizards,  glorying  in  their  stealth, 

Quit  the  black  art,  and  loll  in  lazy  wealth. 

See  Britain's  Algerines,  the  lottery  fry. 

Win  annual  tribute  by  the  annual  lie ! 

Aided  by  thee — but  whither  do  I  stray  ? — 

Court,  city,  borough,  own  thy  sovereign  sway ; 

An  age  of  pufis  an  age  of  gold  succeeds, 

And  windy  Imbbles  are  the  spawn  it  breeds. 

If  such  thy  power,  0  hear  the  Muse's  prayer! 
Swell  thy  loud  lungs  and  wave  thy  wings  of  air ; 
Spread,  viewless  giant,  all  thy  arms  of  mist 
Like  windmill-sails  to  bring  the  poet  grist ; 
As  erst  thy  roaring  son,  with  eddying  gale, 
Whirl'd  Orithyia  from  her  native  vale — 
So,  Avhile  Lucretian  wonders  I  rehearse, 
Augusta's  sons  shall  patronise  my  verse. 

I  sing  of  Atoms,  whose  creative  brain. 
With  eddying  impulse,  built  new  Drury  Lane ; 
Not  to  the  labours  of  subservient  man. 
To  no  young  Wyatt  appertains  the  plan — 


ARCHITECTURAL    ATOMS.  361 

We  mortals  stalk,  like  horses  in  a  mill, 
Impassive  media  of  atomic  ■will ; 
Ye  stare  !  then  Truth's  broad  talisman  discern — 
'Tis  demonstration  speaks — attend,  and  learn  ! 

From  floating  elements  in  Chaos  hurl'd, 
Self-form"d  of  atoms,  sprang  the  infant  -world  : 
No  great  First  Cause  inspired  the  happy  plot, 
But  all  was  matter — and  no  matter  what. 
Atoms,  attracted  by  some  law  occult. 
Settling  in  spheres,  the  globe  was  the  result; 
Pure  child  of  Chance,  which  still  directs  the  ball, 
As  rotatory  atoms  rise  or  fall. 
In  ether  launch'd,  the  peopled  bubble  floats, 
A  mass  of  particles  and  confluent  motes, 
So  nicely  poised,  that  if  one  atom  flings 
Its  weight  away,  aloft  the  planet  springs, 
And  wings  its  course  through  realms  of  boundless  space, 
Outstripping  comets  in  eccentric  race. 
Add  but  one  atom  more,  it  sinks  outright 
Down  to  the  realms  of  Tartarus  and  night. 
What  waters  melt  or  scorching  fires  consume. 
In  different  forms  their  being  re-assume : 
Hence  can  no  change  arise,  except  in  name, 
For  weight  and  substance  ever  are  the  same. 

Thus  with  the  flames  that  from  old  Drury  rise 
Its  elements  primeval  sought  the  skies ; 
There  pendulous  to  wait  the  happy  hour 
When  new  attractions  should  restore  their  power : 
So,  in  this  procreant  theatre  elate. 
Echoes  unborn  their  future  life  await ; 
Here  embryo  sounds  in  ether  lie  conceal'd, 
Like  words  in  northern  atmosphere  congeal'd. 
IG 


362  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

Here  many  a  foetus  laugh  and  half  encore 

Clings  to  the  roof,  or  creeps  along  the  floor ; 

By  puifs  concipient  some  in  ether  flit, 

And  soar  in  bravos  from  the  thundering  pit ; 

Some  forth  on  ticket-nights'^  from  tradesmen  break, 

To  mar  the  actor  they  design  to  make  ; 

While  some  this  mortal  life  abortive  miss, 

Crush'd  by  a  groan,  or  strangled  by  a  hiss. 

So,  Avhen  "  Dog's-meat"  re-echoes  through  the  streets, 

Rush  sympathetic  dogs  from  their  retreats. 

Beam  with  bright  blaze  their  supplicating  eyes, 

Sink  their  hind-legs,  ascend  their  joyful  cries ; 

Each,  wild  with  hope,  and  maddening  to  prevail. 

Points  the  pleased  car,  and  wags  the  expectant  tail. 

Ye  fallen  bricks  !  in  Drury's  fire  calcined. 
Since  doom'd  to  slumber,  couch' d  upon  the  wind. 
Sweet  was  the  hour,  when,  tempted  by  your  freaks. 
Congenial  trowels  smooth'd  your  yellow  cheeks. 
Float  dulcet  serenades  upon  the  ear. 
Bends  every  atom  from  its  ruddy  sphere. 
Twinkles  each  eye,  and,  peeping  from  its  veil, 
Marks  in  the  adverse  crowd  its  destined  male. 
The  oblong  beauties  clap  their  hands  of  grit, 
And  brick-dust  titterings  on  the  breezes  flit ; 
Then  down  they  rush  in  amatory  race, 
Their  dusty  bridegrooms  eager  to  embrace. 
Some  choose  old  lovers,  some  decide  for  new. 
But  each,  when  fix'd,  is  to  her  station  true. 
Thus  various  bricks  are  made,  as  tastes  invite — 
The  red,  the  gray,  the  dingy,  or  the  white. 

Perhaps  some  half-baked  rover,  frank  and  free, 
To  alien  beauty  bends  the  lawless  knee, 


ARCIIITECTUKAL    ATOMS.  6 

But  of  unhallow'd  fascinations  sick, 
Soon  quits  his  Cyprian  for  his  married  brick  ; 
The  Dido  atom  calls  and  scolds  in  vain, 
No  crisp  iEncas  soothes  the  widow's  pam. 

So  in  Cheapside,  what  time  Aurora  peeps, 
A  mingled  noise  of  dustmen,  milk,  and  sweeps, 
Falls  on  the  housemaid's  ear  :  amazed  she  stands, 
Then  opes  the  door  with  cinder-sabled  hands, 
And  '-^Matches"  calls.     The  dustman,  bubbled  flat, 
Thinks  'tis  for  him,  and  doffs  his  fan-tail'd  hat ; 
The  milkman,  whom  her  second  cries  assail. 
With  sudden  sink  unyokes  the  clinking  pail ; 
Now  louder  grown,  by  turns  she  screams  and  weeps- 
Alas !  her  screaming  only  brings  the  sweeps. 
Sweeps  but  put  out — she  wants  to  raise  a  flame. 
And  calls  for  matches,  but  'tis  all  the  same. 
Atoms  and  housemaids  !  mark  the  moral  true — 
If  once  ye  go  astray,  no  match  for  you  ! 

As  atoms  in  one  mass  united  mix, 
So  bricks  attraction  feel  for  kindred  bricks  ; 
Some  in  the  cellar  view,  perchance,  on  high, 
Fair  chimney  chums  on  beds  of  mortar  lie ; 
Enamour'd  of  the  sympathetic  clod, 
Leaps  the  red  bridegroom  to  the  labourer's  hod : 
And  up  the  ladder  bears  the  workman,  taught 
To  think  he  bears  the  bricks — mistaken  thought ! 
A  proof  behold  :  if  near  the  top  they  find 
The  nymphs  or  broken-corner'd  or  unkind, 
Back  to  the  base,  "  resulting  with  a  bound,  "^ 
They  bear  their  bleeding  carriers  to  the  ground ! 

So  legends  tell  along  the  lofty  hill 
Paced  the  twin  heroes,  gallant  Jack  and  Jill ; 


864  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

On  trudged  the  Gemini  to  reach  the  rail 

That  shields  the  well's  top  from  the  expectant  pail, 

When,  ah !  Jack  falls ;  and,  rolling  in  the  rear, 

Jill  feels  the  attraction  of  his  kindred  sphere  ; 

Head  over  heels  begins  his  toppling  track, 

Throws  sympathetic  somersets  with  Jack, 

And  at  the  mountain's  base  bobs  plumpagainsthim,whack! 

Ye  living  atoms,  who  unconscious  sit. 
Jumbled  by  chance  in  gallery,  box,  and  pit, 
For  you  no  Peter  opes  the  fabled  door. 
No  churlish  Charon  plies  the  shadowy  oar ; 
Breathe  but  a  space,  and  Boreas'  casual  sweep 
Shall  bear  your  scattered  corses  o'er  the  deep. 
To  gorge  the  greedy  elements,  and  mix 
With  water,  marl,  and  clay,  and  stones,  and  sticks ; 
While,  charged  with  fancied  souls,  sticks,  stones,  and  clay, 
Shall  take  your  seats,  and  hiss  or  clap  the  play. 

0  happy  age  !  when  convert  Christians  read 
No  sacred  writings  but  the  Pagan  creed — 
0  happy  age  !  when,  spurning  Newton's  dreams, 
Our  poets'  sons  recite  Lucretian  themes, 
Abjure  the  idle  systems  of  their  youth, 
And  turn  again  to  atoms  and  to  truth  ; — 
O  happier  still!  when  England's  dauntless  dames, 
Awed  by  no  chaste  alarms,  no  latent  shames. 
The  bard's  fourth  book  unblushingly  peruse. 
And  learn  the  rampant  lessons  of  the  stews  ! 

All  hail,  Lucretius  !  renovated  sage  ! 
Unfold  the  modest  mystics  of  thy  page ; 
Eeturn  no  more  to  thy  sepulchral  shelf, 
But  live,  kind  bard — that  I  may  live  myself 


XVI. 
THEATRICAL  ALARM-BELL. 

BY   THE  EDITOR    OP    THE    M.    P. 


" Bounce,  Jupiter,  bounce!" — O'Haea. 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 
As  it  is  now  the  universally-admitted,  and  indeed  prettj- 
generally-suspected,  aim  of  Mr.  Wbitbread  and  the 
infamous,  bloodthirsty,  and,  in  fact,  illiberal  faction  to 
Tvhich  he  belongs,  to  burn  to  the  ground  this  free  and 
happy  Protestant  city,  and  establish  himself  in  St. 
James's  Palace,  his  fellow  committeemen  have  thought 
it  their  duty  to  vratch  the  principles  of  a  theatre  built 
under  his  auspices.  The  information  they  have  re- 
ceived from  an  undoubted  authority — particularly  from 
an  old  fruit- woman  who  had  turned  king's  evidence, 
and  whose  name,  for  obvious  reasons,  we  forbear  to 
mention,  though  we  have  had  it  some  weeks  in  our 
possession — has  induced  them  to  introduce  various  re- 
forms— not  such  reforro.s  as  the  vile  factions  clamour  for, 
meaning  thereby  revolution,  but  such  reforms  as  are  neces- 
sary to  preserve  the  glorious  constitution  of  the  only  free, 
happy,  and  prosperous  country  now  left  upon  the  face  of 
the  earth.  From'thc  valuable  and  authentic  source  above 
alluded  to,  we  have  leamt  that  a  sanguinary  plot  has  been 
formed  by  some  united  L'ishmen,  combined  with  a  gang 
of  Luddites,  and  a  special  committee  sent  over  by  the 
Pope  at  the  instigation  of  the  beastly  Corsican  fiend,  for 


366  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

destroying  all  the  loyal  part  of  the  audience  on  the  an- 
niversary of  that  deeply-to-be-abhorred-and-highly-to- 
be-blamed  stratagem,  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  which  falls 
this  year  on  Thursday  the  fifth  of  November.  The 
whole  is  under  the  direction  of  a  delegated  committee 
of  0.  P's  whose  treasonable  exploits  at  Covent  Garden 
you  all  recollect,  and  all  of  whom  would  have  been  hung 
from  the  chandeliers  at  that  time,  but  for  the  mistaken 
lenity  of  government.  At  a  given  signal,  a  well-known 
0.  P.  was  to  cry  out  from  the  gallery,  "  Nosey !  Music !" 
whereupon  all  the  0.  P.'s  were  to  produce  from  their 
inside  pockets  a  long  pair  of  shears,  edged  with  felt,  to 
prevent  their  making  any  noise,  manufactured  expressly 
by  a  wretch  at  Birmingham,  one  of  Mr.  Brougham's 
evidences,  and  now  in  custody.  With  these  they  were 
to  cut  off  the  heads  of  all  the  loyal  N.  P.'s  in  the  house, 
without  distinction  of  sex  or  age.  At  the  signal,  simi- 
larly given,  of  "Throw  him  over!"  which  it  now  ap- 
pears always  alluded  to  the  overthrow  of  our  never- 
sufficiently-enough  -  to-be-deeply-and-universally-to  -  be- 
venerated  constitution,  all  the  heads  of  the  N.  P.'s  were 
to  be  thrown  at  the  fiddler,  to  prevent  their  appearing 
in  evidence,  or  perhaps  as  a  false  and  illiberal  insinua- 
tion that  they  have  no  heads  of  then-  ovm.  All  that 
we  know  of  the  further  designs  of  these  incendiaries  is, 
that  they  are  by-a-great-deal-too-much-too-horrible-to- 
be-mentioned. 

The  manager  has  acted  with  his  usual  promptitude  on 
this  trying  occasion.  He  has  contracted  for  300  tons 
of  gunpowder,  which  are  at  this  moment  placed  in  a 
small  barrel  under  the  pit ;  and  a  descendant  of  Guy 
Faux,  assisted  by  Col.  Congreve,  has  undertaken  to 
blow  up  the  house,  when  necessary,  in  so  novel  and  in- 
genious a  manner,  that  every  0.  P.  shall  be  annihilated, 


THEATRICAL   ALARM-BELL.  367 

while  not  a  whisker  of  the  N.  P.'s  shall  be  singed. 
This  strikingly  displays  the  advantages  of  loyalty  and 
attachment  to  government.  Several  other  hints  have 
been  taken  from  the  theatrical  regulations  of  the  not-a- 
bit-thc-lcss-on-that  -  account-to-be-uni  versally- execrated 
monster  Bonaparte.  A  park  of  artillery,  provided  with 
chain-shot,  is  to  be  stationed  on  the  stage,  and  play  upon 
the  audience,  in  case  of  any  indication  of  misplaced  ap- 
plause or  popular  discontent  (which  accounts  for  the 
large  space  bctAveen  the  curtain  and  the  lamps)  ;  and 
the  public  will  participate  our  satisfaction  in  learning 
that  the  indecorous  custom  of  standing  up  with  the  hat 
on  is  to  be  abolished,  as  the  Bow-street  officers  are  pro- 
vided with  daggers,  and  have  orders  to  stab  all  such 
persons  to  the  heart,  and  send  their  bodies  to  Surgeons' 
Hall.  Gentlemen  who  cough  arc  only  to  be  slightly 
wounded.  Fruit- women  bawling  "Bill  of  the  Play!" 
arc  to  be  forthwith  shot,  for  which  purpose  soldiers  will 
be  stationed  in  the  slips,  and  ball-cartridge  is  to  be 
served  out  with  the  lemonade.  If  any  of  the  spectators 
happen  to  sneeze  or  spit,  they  are  to  be  transported  for 
life ;  and  any  person  who  is  so  tall  as  to  prevent  another 
seeing,  is  to  be  dragged  out  and  sent  on  board  the  tender, 
or,  by  an  instrument  to  be  taken  out  of  the  pocket  of 
Procrustes,  to  be  forthwith  cut  shorter,  either  at  the 
head  or  foot,  according  as  his  own  convenience  may 
dictate. 

Thus,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  have  the  committee, 
through  my  medium,  set  forth  the  not-in-a-hurry-to-be- 
pai'alleled  plan  they  have  adopted  for  preserving  order 
and  decorum  within  the  walls  of  their  magnificent  edi- 
fice. Nor  have  they,  while  attentive  to  their  own  con- 
cerns, by  any  means  overlooked  those  of  the  cities  of 
London   and  "Westminster.     Findinfj  on  enumeration, 


368  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

that  they  have  -with  a  with-two-hands-and-one-tongue- 
to-be-applauded  liberahty  contracted  for  more  gunpow- 
der than  they  want,  they  have  parted  with  the  surplus 
to  the  mattock-carrying  and  hustings-hammering  high- 
bailiff  of  Westmhister,  who  has,  with  his  own  shovel, 
dug  a  large  hole  in  the  front  of  the  parish-church  of 
St.  Pavil,  Covent  Garden,  that,  upon  the  least  symptom 
of  ill-breeding  in  the  mob  at  the  general  election,  the 
whole  of  the  market  may  be  blown  into  the  air.  This, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  may  at  first  make  provisions  rise, 
but  we  pledge  the  credit  of  our  theatre  that  they  will 
soon  fall  again,  and  people  be  supplied,  as  usual,  with 
vegetables,  in  the  in-general-strewed-with-cabbage-stalks- 
but-on-Saturday-night-lighted-up-with-lamps  market  of 
Covent  Garden. 

I  should  expatiate  more  largely  on  the  other  advan- 
tages of  the  glorious  constitution  of  these  by-the-whole- 
of-Europe-envied  realms,  but  I  am  called  away  to  take 
an  account  of  the  ladies,  and  other  artificial  flowers  of  a 
fashionable  rout,  of  which  a  full  and  particular  account 
will  hereafter  appear.  For  the  present,  my  fashionable 
intelligence  is  scanty,  on  account  of  the  opening  of 
Drury  Lane ;  and  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  honour 
me  will  not  be  surprised  to  find  nothing  under  my  usual 
head!! 


XVII. 
THE   THEATRE. 

BY    THE    EEV.   G.  C. 


"  Nil  intcntatum  nostri  liquure  poctoe, 
Nee  ininimuni  meriierc  decus,  vestigia  Grseca 
Ausi  descrere,  ct  celebrare  domestica  facta."        Hob. 

A  PREFACE  OP  APOLOGIES.' 

If  the  following  poem  should  be  fortunate  enough  to  be 
selected  for  the  opening  address,  a  few  words  of  expla- 
ation  may  be  deemed  necessary,  on  my  part,  to  avert 
invidious  misrepresentation.  The  animadversion  I  have 
thought  it  right  to  make  on  the  noise  created  by  tuning 
the  orchestra,  will,  I  hope,  give  no  lasting  remorse  to 
any  of  the  gentlemen  employed  in  the  band.  It  is  to  be 
desired  that  they  would  keep  their  instruments  ready 
tuned,  and  strike  off  at  once.  This  would  be  an  accom- 
modation to  many  well-meaning  persons  who  frequent 
the  theatre,  who,  not  being  blest  with  the  ear  of  St. 
Cecilia,  mistake  the  tuning  for  the  overture,  and  think 
the  latter  concluded  before  it  is  be";un. 


-one  fiddle  will 


Give,  half  asbamed,  a  tiny  flourish  still," 

was  originally  written  "one  hautboy  will;"  but,  having 
providentially  been  informed,  when  this  poem  was  on  the 
point  of  being  sent  off,  that  there  is  but  one  hautboy  in 
the  band,  I  averted  the  storm  of  popular  and  managerial 
indignation  fi-om  the  head  of  its  blower :  as  it  now  stands, 
16* 


870  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

'•one  fiddle"  among  many,  the  faulty  individual,  vfiW,  I 
hope,  escape  detection.  The  story  of  the  flying  play- 
bill is  calculated  to  expose  a  practice  much  too  common, 
of  pinning  play-bills  to  the  cushions  insecurely,  and 
frequently,  I  fear,  not  pinning  them  at  all.  If  these 
lines  save  one  play-bill  only  from  the  fate  I  have 
recorded,  I  shall  not  deem  my  labour  ill  employed. 
The  concluding  episode  of  Patrick  Jennings  glances  at 
the  boorish  fashion  of  wearing  the  hat  in  the  one-shilling 
gallery.  Had  Jennings  thrust  his  between  his  feet  at 
the  commencement  of  the  play,  he  might  have  leaned 
forward  with  impunity,  and  the  catastrophe  I  relate 
would  not  have  occurred.  The  line  of  handkerchiefs 
formed  to  enable  him  to  recover  his  loss,  is  purposely  so 
crossed  in  texture  and  materials  as  to  mislead  the  reader 
in  respect  to  the  real  owner  of  any  one  of  them.  For, 
in  the  statistical  view  of  life  and  manners  which  I  oc- 
casionally present,  my  clerical  profession  has  taught  me 
how  extremely  improper  it  would  be,  by  any  allusion, 
however  slight,  to  give  any  uneasiness,  however  trivial, 
to  any  individual,  however  foolish  or  wicked. 

G.  C. 


THE  THEATRE. 


Interior  of  a  Theatre  dcscribetl.— Pit  gradually  fill?.— The  Cliock-talccr.— Pit 
full. — The  Orcliestra  tuned. — One  fiddle  rather  dilatory. — Is  reproved — and 
repents. — Evolutions  of  a  Play-bill. — Its  final  Settlement  on  the  Spikes. — The 
Gods  taken  to  task — and  why. — Motley  Group  of  Play-goers. — Holywell 
Street,  St.  Pancras.— Emanuel  Jennings  binds  his  Son  apprentice— not  in 
London — and  why. — Episode  of  the  Hat. 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six, 
Our  long  wax-candles,  with  short  cotton  wicks. 
Touch' d  by  the  lamplighter's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start ; 
To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery-pane 
Tinge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane ; 
While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widen'd  pit, 
And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit. 

At  fii-st,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice  and  ease, 
Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they  please ; 
But  when  the  multitude  contracts  the  span. 
And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they  can. 

Now  the  full  benches  to  late-comers  doom 
No  room  for  standing,  miscall'd  staniling  room. 

Hark!  the  check-taker  moody  silence  breaks. 
And  bawling  "  Pit  full !"  gives  the  check  he  takes; 
Yet  onward  still  the  gathering  numbers  cram. 
Contending  crowders  shout  the  frequent  damn, 
And  all  is  bustle,  squeeze,  row,  jabbering,  and  jam. 


372  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

See  to  their  desks  Apollo's  sons  repair — 
Swift  rides  the  rosin  o'er  the  horse's  hair  ! 
In  unison  their  various  tones  to  tune, 
Murmurs  the  hautboy,  growls  the  hoarse  bassoon ; 
In  soft  vibration  sighs  the  whispering  lute. 
Tang  goes  the  harpsichord,  too-too  the  flute. 
Brays  the  loud  trumpet,  squeaks  the  fiddle  sharp, 
Winds  the  French-horn,  and  twangs  the  tingling  harp ; 
Till,  like  great  Jove,  the  leader,  figuring  in. 
Attunes  to  order  the  chaotic  din. 
Now  all  seems  hush'd — but,  no,  one  fiddle  will 
Give,  half-ashamed,  a  tiny  flourish  still. 
Foil'd  in  his  crash,  the  leader  of  the  clan 
Reproves  with  frowns  the  dilatory  man : 
Then  on  his  candlestick  thrice  taps  his  bow, 
Nods  a  new  signal,  and  away  they  go. 

Perchance,  while  pit  and  gallery  cry,  "Hats  ofi"!" 
And  awed  Consumption  checks  his  chided  cough, 
Some  giggling  daughter  of  the  Queen  of  Love 
Drops,  reft  of  pin,  her  play-bill  from  above : 
Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap. 
Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  air  the  printed  scrap ; 
But,  wiser  far  than  he,  combustion  fears, 
And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers  ; 
Till,  sinking  gradual,  with  repeated  twirl. 
It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler's  curl; 
Who  from  his  powder' d  pate  the  intruder  strikes, 
And,  from  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the  spikes. 

Say,  why  these  Babel  strains  from  Babel  tongues  ? 
Who's  that  calls  "  Silence!"  with  such  leathern  lungs? 
He  who,  in  quest  of  quiet,  "  Silence  !"  hoots, 
Is  apt  to  make  the  hubbub  he  imputes. 


THE  THEATRE.  373 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain  ! — 
Fashion  from  Moorficlds,  honour  from  Chick  Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort, 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Court; 
From  the  Ilaymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain, 
Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane ; 
The  lottery-cormorant,  the  auction- shark, 
The  fuU-prico  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery-door, 
With  pence  twice  five — they  want  but  twopence  more ; 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 
And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery-stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  balk. 
But  talk  their  minds — we  wish  they  'd  mind  their  talk ; 
Big-worded  bullies,  wdio  by  quarrels  live — 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give ; 
Jews  from  St.  Mary  Axe,-  for  jobs  so  wary, 
That  for  old  clothes  they  'd  even  axe  St.  Mary ; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 
Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 
Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  Chance  can  joy  bestow, 
For  scowling  Fortune  seem'd  to  threaten  woe. 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire ; 
But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 
Emanuel  Jennings  polish' d  Stubbs" s  shoes. 
Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a  corn-cutter — a  safe  employ ; 
In  Holy- weir  Street,  St.  Pancras,  he  was  bred 


374  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said), 
Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby's  Head: 
He  Avould  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  town, 
But  with  a  premium  he  could  not  come  down. 
Pat  was  the  urchin's  name — a  red-hair'd  youth, 
Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle  grounds  than  truth. 

Silence,  ye  gods !  to  keep  your  tongues  in  awe, 
The  Muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 

Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat. 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat : 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew, 
And  spurn'd  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?     Pay  at  the  gallery-door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost,  when  new,  but  four  ? 
Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait. 
And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight  ? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  Mullens  whispers,  "  Take  my  handkerchief." 
"  Thank  you,"  cries  Pat ;  "  but  one  won't  make  a  line." 
"Take  mine,"  cried  Wilson;  and  cried  Stokes,  "Take 

mine." 
A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties. 
Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 
Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  clue, 
Starr'd,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue, 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 
George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand, 
Loops  the  last  'kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band — 
Upsoars  the  prize  !     The  youth  with  joy  unfeign'd, 
Regain'd  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regain'd  ; 
While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a  low  bow,  and  touch' d  the  ransom' d  hat. 


XYIII.    XIX.    XX. 

TO  THE  MANAGING   COMMITTEE   OF   THE  NEW 
DRURYLANE   THEATRE. 


Happening  to  be  wool-gathering  at  the  foot  of 
Mount  Parnassus,  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  violent 
travestie  in  the  head.  The  first  symptoms  I  felt  were 
several  triple  rhymes  floating  about  my  brain,  accompa- 
nied by  a  singing  in  my  throat,  which  quickly  commu- 
nicated itself  to  the  ears  of  every  body  about  me,  and 
made  me  a  burthen  to  my  friends  and  a  torment  to  Dr. 
Apollo;  three  of  whose  favourite  servants — that  is  to 
say,  Macbeth,  his  butcher ;  Mrs.  Haller,  his  cook ;  and 
George  Barnwell,  his  book-keeper — I  waylaid  in  one  of 
my  fits  of  insanity,  and  mauled  after  a  very  frightful 
fashion.  In  this  woeful  crisis,  I  accidentally  heard  of 
your  invaluable  New  Patent  Hissing  Pit,  which  cures 
every  disorder  incident  to  Grub  Street.  I  send  you 
inclosed  a  more  detailed  specimen  of  my  case :  if  you 
could  mould  it  into  the  shape  of  an  address,  to  be  said 
or  sung  on  the  first  night  of  your  performance,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  I  should  feel  the  immediate  effects  of  your 
invaluable  New  Patent  Hissing  Pit,  of  which  they  tell 
me  one  hiss  is  a  dose. 

I  am,  &c., 
MoMUS  Medlar. 


CASE  No.  I. 

MACBETH. 


iEnter  Macbeth  in  a  red  nightcap.    Page  following  with  a  torch.'] 

Go,  boy,  and  thy  good  mistress  tell 
(She  knows  that  my  purpose  is  cruel), 

I  'd  thank  her  to  tingle  her  bell 

"H^  soon  as  she 's  heated  my  gruel. 

G^  get  thee  to  bed  and  repose — 
To  sit  up  so  late  is  a  scandal ; 

But  ere  you  have  ta'en  off  your  clothes, 
Be  sure  that  you  put  out  that  candle. 
Ri  fol  de  rol  tol  de  rol  lol. 

My  stars,  in  the  air  here  's  a  knife ! — 

I  'm  sure  it  can  not  be  a  hum ; 
I  '11  catch  at  the  handle,  add's  life  ! 

And  then  I  shall  not  cut  my  thumb. 
I  've  got  him ! — no,  at  him  again  ! 

Come,  come,  I  'm  not  fond  of  these  jokes ; 
This  must  be  some  blade  of  the  brain — 

Those  witches  are  given  to  hoax. 

I  've  one  in  my  pocket,  I  know. 

My  wife  left  on  purpose  behind  her ; 

She  bought  this  of  Teddy-high-ho, 
The  poor  Caledonian  grinder. 


MACBETH.  877 

I  see  thee  again  !  o'er  thy  middle 

Large  drops  of  red  blood  now  are  spill'd, 

Just  as  much  as  to  say,  diddle  diddle, 
Good  Duncan,  pray  come  and  be  kill'd. 

It  leads  to  his  chamber,  I  swear ; 

I  tremble  and  quake  every  joint — 
No  dog  at  the  scent  of  a  hare 

Ever  yet  made  a  cleverer  point. 
Ah,  no !  'twas  a  dagger  of  straAV— 

Give  me  blinkers,  to  save  me  from  starting; 
The  knife  that  I  thought  that  I  saw 

AVas  nought  but  my  eye,  Betty  Martin. 

Now  o'er  this  terrestrial  hive 

A  life  paralytic  is  spread ; 
For  while  the  one  half  is  alive, 

The  other  is  sleepy  and  dead. 
King  Duncan,  in  grand  majesty. 

Has  got  my  state-bed  for  a  snooze ; 
I  've  lent  him  my  slippers,  so  I 

May  certainly  stand  in  his  shoes. 

Blow  softly,  ye  murmuring  gales  ! 

Ye,  feet,  rouse  no  echo  in  walking  ! 
For  though  a  dead  man  tells  no  tales. 

Dead  walls  are  much  given  to  talking, 
This  knife  shall  be  in  at  the  death— 

I  '11  stick  him,  then  off  safely  get! 
Cries  the  world,  this  could  not  be  Macbeth, 

For  he  'd  ne'er  stick  at  any  thing  yet. 

Hark,  hark !  'tis  the  signal,  by  goles  ! 
It  sounds  like  a  funeral  knell ; 


378  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

0,  near  it  not,  Duncan  !  it  tolls 
To  call  thee  to  heaven  or  hell. 

Or  if  you  to  heaven  won't  fly, 

-  But  rather  prefer  Pluto's  ether. 

Only  wait  a  few  years  till  I  die, 
And  we  '11  go  to  the  devil  together. 
Ri  fol  de  rolj  &c. 


CASE  No.  II. 

THE  STRANGER.' 


Wno   has  e'er  been  at  Drurj  must  needs  know  the 

Stranger, 
A  wailing  old  Methodist,  gloomy  and  wan, 
A  husband  suspicious — his  wife  acted  Ranger, 
She  took  to  her  heels,  and  left  poor  Hypocon. 
Her  martial  gallant  swore  that  truth  was  a  libel. 
That  marriage  was  thraldom,  elopement  no  sin ; 
Quoth  she,  I  remember  the  words  of  my  Bible — 
My  spouse  is  a  Stranger,  and  I  '11  take  him  in. 
With  my  sentimentalibus  lachrymse  roar'em. 
And  pathos  and  bathos  delightful  to  see ; 
And  chop  and  change  ribs,  u-la-mode  Germanorum, 
And  high  diddle  ho  diddle,  pop  tweedle  dee. 

To  keep  up  her  dignity  no  longer  rich  enough. 
Where  was  her  plate  ? — why,  'twas  laid  on  the  shelf; 
Her  land  fuller's  earth,  and  her  great  riches  kitchen- 
stuff- 
Dressing  the  dinner  instead  of  herself. 
No  longer  permitted  in  diamonds  to  sparkle. 
Now  plain  Mrs.  Ilaller,  of  servants  the  dread. 
With  a  heart  full  of  grief,  and  a  pan  full  of  charcoal, 
She  lighted  the  company  up  to  their  bed. 

Incensed  at  her  flight,  her  poor  Hubby  in  dudgeon 
Roam'd  after  his  rib  in  a  gig  and  a  pout. 


380  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Till,  tired  with  his  journey  the  peevish  cuiinudgeoii 
Sat  down  and  blubber' d  just  like  a  church-spout. 
One  day  on  a  bench  as  dejected  and  sad  he  laid, 
Hearing  a  squash,  he  cried.  Damn  it,  what 's  that  ? 
'Twas  a  child   of  the  count's,  in  whose  service  lived 

Adelaide, 
Soused  in  the  river,  and  squall' d  like  a  cat. 


Having  drawn  his  young  excellence  up  to  the  bank,  it 
Appear'd  that  himself  was  all  dripping,  I  swear ; 
No  wonder  he  soon  became  dry  as  a  blanket, 
Exposed  as  he  was  to  the  count's  son  and  heir, 
Dear  sir,  quoth  the  count,  in  reward  of  your  valour. 
To  shew  that  my  gratitude  is  not  mere  talk. 
You  shall  eat  a  beefsteak  with  my  cook,  Mrs.  Haller, 
Cut  from  the  rump  with  her  own  knife  and  fork. 

Behold,  now  the  count  gave  the  Stranger  a  dinner, 
With  gunpowder-tea,  which  you  know  brings  a  ball, 
And,  thin  as  he  was,  that  he  might  not  grow  thinner. 
He  made  of  the  Stranger  no  stranger  at  all. 
At  dmner  fair  Adelaide  brought  up  a  chicken — 
A  bird  that  she  never  had  met  with  before ; 
But,  seeing  him,  scream' d,  and  was  carried  off  kicking, 
And  he  bang'd  his  nob  'gainst  the  opposite  door. 

To  finish  my  tale  without  roundaboutation, 
Young  master  and  missee  besieged  their  papa ; 
They  sung  a  quartette  in  grand  blubberation — 
The  Stranger  cried  Oh !  Mrs.  Haller  cried  Ah  ! 
Though  pathos  and  sentiment  largely  are  dealt  in, 
I  have  no  good  moral  to  give  in  exchange ; 


STRANGER  TRAVESTIE.  381 

For  though  she,  as  a  cook,  might  be  given  to  melting, 
The  Stranger's  behaviour  was  certainly  strange, 
With  this  sentimentalibus  lachrjmae  roar 'em, 
And  pathos  and  bathos  delightful  to  see, 
And  chop  and  change  ribs,  u-la-mode  Germanorum, 
And  high  diddle  ho  diddle,  pop  tweedle  dee. 


CASE,  No.  m. 


GEORGE  BAENWELL. 


George  Barnwell  stood  at  the  shop-door, 
A  customer  hoping  to  find,  sir ; 
His  apron  was  hanging  before. 
But  the  tail  of  his  coat  was  behind,  sir. 
A  lady,  so  painted  and  smart. 
Cried,  Sir,  I've  exhausted  my  stock  o'  late ; 
I've  got  nothing  left  but  a  groat — 
Could  you  give  me  four  penn'orth  of  chocolate  ? 
Rum  ti,  &c. 

Her  face  was  rouged  up  to  the  eyes, 
Which  made  her  look  prouder  and  prouder ; 
His  hair  stood  on  end  with  surprise. 
And  hers  with  pomatum  and  powder. 
The  business  was  soon  understood  ; 
The  lady,  who  wish'd  to  be  more  rich, 
Cries,  Sweet  sir,  my  name  is  Milwood, 
And  I  lodge  at  the  Gunner's  in  Shoreditch. 
Eum  ti,  &c. 

Now  nightly  he  stole  out,  good  lack ! 
And  into  her  lodging  would  pop,  sir ; 
And  often  forgot  to  come  back, 
Leaving  master  to  shut  up  the  shop,  sir. 


GEORGE   BARNWELL   TRAVESTIE. 

Her  beauty  his  -wits  did  bereave — 
Determined  to  be  quite  the  crack  0, 
He  lounged  at  the  Adam  and  Eve, 
And  call'd  for  his  gin  and  tobacco. 
Rum  ti.  (fee. 

And  novr — for  the  truth  must  be  told, 
Though  none  of  a  'prentice  should  speak  ill — 
He  stole  from  the  till  all  the  gold. 
And  ate  the  lump-sugar  and  treacle. 
In  vain  did  his  master  exclaim, 
Dear  George,  do  n't  engage  with  that  dragon; 
She  "11  lead  you  to  sorrow  and  shame. 
And  leave  you  the  devil  a  rag  on 

Your  rum  ti,  &c. 

In  vain  he  entreats  and  implores 
The  weak  and  incurable  ninny. 
So  kicks  him  at  last  out  of  doors. 
And  Georgy  soon  spends  his  last  guinea. 
His  uncle,  whose  generous  purse 
Had  often  relieved  him,  as  I  know. 
Now  finding  him  grow  worse  and  worse, 
Refused  to  come  down  with  the  rhino. 
Rum  ti,  &c. 

Cried  Milwood,  whose  cruel  heart's  core 
Was  so  flinty  that  nothing  could  shock  it, 
If  ye  mean  to  come  here  any  more, 
Pray  come  with  some  cash  in  your  pocket : 
Make  Nunky  surrender  his  dibs. 
Rub  his  pate  with  a  pair  of  lead  towels, 
Or  stick  a  knife  into  his  ribs — 
I  '11  warrant  he  '11  then  shew  some  bowels. 
Rum  ti,  &c. 


384  REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

A  pistol  he  got  from  his  love — 
'Twas  loaded  Tvith  powder  and  bullet ; 
He  trudged  off  to  Camberwell  Grove, 
But  -wanted  the  courage  to  pull  it. 
There 's  Nunkj  as  fat  as  a  hog, 
While  I  am  as  lean  as  a  lizard ; 
Here 's  at  you,  you  stingy  old  dog  ! — 
And  he  whips  a  long  knife  in  his  gizard. 
Rum  ti,  &c. 

All  of  you  who  attend  to  my  song, 
A  terrible  end  of  the  farce  shall  see, 
If  you  join  in  the  inquisitive  throng 
That  follow'd  poor  George  to  Marshalsea. 
If  Milwood  were  here,  dash  my  wigs, 
Quoth  he,  I  would  pummel  and  lam  her  well ; 
Had  I  stuck  to  my  prunes  and  figs, 
I  ne'er  had  stuck  Nunky  at  Camberwell. 
Rum  ti,  &c. 

Their  bodies  were  never  cut  down ; 
For  granny  relates  with  amazement, 
A  witch  bore  'em  over  the  town. 
And  hung  them  on  Thorowgood's  casement. 
The  neighbours,  I  've  heard  the  folks  say, 
The  miracle  noisily  brag  on ; 
And  the  shop  is,  to  this  very  day, 
The  sign  of  the  George  and  the  Dragon. 
Rum  ti,  &c. 


XXI. 

PUNCH'S  APOTHEOSIS. 


"  Rhymes  the  rudders  are  of  verses, 
With  which,  like  ships,  they  steer  their  courses." 

IlnBIBEAS. 

Scene  draws,  and  discovers  Punch  on  a  throne,  surrounded  hy 
Lear,  Lady  Macbeth,  Macbeth,  Othello,  George  Barn- 
well, H.VJILET,  Ghost,  Macheath,  Juliet,  Friar,  Apothe- 
cary, Romeo,  and  Falstaff. — Punch  descends  and  addresses 
them  in  the  following 

RECITATIVE. 

As  manager  of  horses  Mr.  Merr  jman  is, 

So  I  AYith  you  am  master  of  the  ceremonies — 

These  grand  rejoicings.    Let  me  see,  how  name  ye  'em  ? — 

Oh,  in  Greek  lingo  'tis  E-pi-thalamium. 

October's  tenth  it  is :  toss  up  each  hat  to-day, 

And  celebrate  with  shouts  our  opening  Saturday ! 

On  this  great  night,  'tis  settled  by  our  manager, 

That  we,  to  please  great  Johnny  Bull,  should  plan  a 

jeer, 
Dance  a  bang-up  theatrical  cotillion, 
And  put  on  tuneful  Pegasus  a  pillion ; 
That  every  soul,  Avhether  or  not  a  cough  he  has, 
May  kick  like  Harlequin,  and  sing  like  Orpheus. 
So  come,  ye  pupils  of  Sir  John  Gallini,^ 
Spin  up  a  teetotum  like  Angiolini  i^ 
17 


386  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

That  John  and  Mrs.  Bull,  from  ale  and  tea-houses, 
May  shout  huzza  for  Punch's  Apotheosis  ! 

They  dance  and  sing. 
Air — "  Sure  such  a  dayP     Tom  Thumb. 

LEAR. 

Dance,  Regan !  dance,  with  Cordelia  and  Goneril — 

Down  the  middle,  up  again,  poussette,  and  cross ; 

Stop,  Cordelia  !  do  not  tread  upon  her  heel, 

Regan  feeds  on  coltsfoot,  and  kicks  like  a  horse. 

See.  she  twists  her  mutton  fists  like  Moljneux  or  Beel- 
zebub, 

And  t'  other 's  clack,  who  pats  her  back,  is  louder  far 
than  hell's  hubbub. 

They  tweak  my  nose  and  round  it  goes — I  fear  they  '11 
break  the  ridge  of  it. 

Or  leave  it  all  just  like  Vauxhall,  with  only  half  the 
bridge  of  it.^ 

OMNES. 

Round  let  us  bound,  for  this  is  Punch's  holyday, 
Glory  to  Tomfoolery,  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

LADY    MACBETH. 

/  kill'd  the  king ;  my  husband  is  a  heavy  dunce ; 

He  left  the  grooms  unmassacred,  then  massacred  the 

stud. 
One  loves  long  gloves ;  for  mittens,  like  king's  evidence, 
Let  truth  with  the  fingers  out,  and  won't  hide  blood. 

MACBETH. 

When  spoonys  on  two  knees  implore  the  aid  of  sorcery, 
To  suit  their  wicked  purposes  they  quickly  put  the  laws 
awry; 


punch's   ArOTHEOSIS.  387 

With  Adam  I  in  wife  may  vie,  for  none  could  tell  the 

use  of  her, 
Except  to  cheapen  golden  pippins  hawk'd   about   by 

Lucifer. 

OMNES. 

Round  let  us  bound,  for  this  is  Punch's  holyday, 
Glory  to  Tomfoolery,  huzza !  huzza ! 

OTHELLO. 

Wife,  come  to  life,  forgive  what  your  black  lover  did. 
Spit  the  feathers  from  your  mouth,  and  munch  roast 

beef; 
lago  he  may  go  and  be  toss'd  in  the  coverlet 
That  smother'd  you,  because  you  pawn'd  my  handker- 
chief. 

GEORGE   BARNWELL. 

Why,  neger,  so  eager  about  your  rib  immaculate  ? 
Milwood  shews  for  hanging  us  they  've   got  an  ugly 

knack  o'  late ; 
If  on  beauty  'stead  of  duty  but  one  peeper  bent  he  sees, 
Satan  waits  with  Dolly  baits  to  hook  in  us  apprentices. 


Round  let  us  bound,  for  this  is  Punch's  holyday, 
Glory  to  Tomfoolery,  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

HAMLET. 

I'm  Hamlet  in  camlet,  my  ap  and  pcri-helia 

The  moon  can  fix,  which  lunatics  makes  sharp  or  flat. 

I  stuck  by  ill  luck,  enamour'd  of  Ophelia, 

Old  Polony,  like  a  sausage,  and  exclaim'd,  "Rat,  rat!" 


388  REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

GHOST. 

Let  Gertrude  sup  the  poison' d  cup — no  more  I'll  be  an 

actor  in 
Such  sorrj  food,  but  druik  home-brew'd  of  Whitbread's 

manufacturing. 

MACHEATH. 

I'll  Poll  J  it,  and  folly  it,  and  dance  it  quite  the  dandy  0  ; 
But  as  for  tunes,  I  have  but  one,  and  that  is  Drops  of 
Brandy  0. 


Round  let  us  bound,  for  this  is  Punch's  holyday, 
Glory  to  Tomfoolery,  huzza  !  huzza ! 


I'm  Juliet  Capulet,  who  took  a  dose  of  hellebore — 
A  hell-of-a-bore  I  found  it  to  put  on  a  pall. 

FRIAR. 

And  I  am  the  friar,  who  so  corpulent  a  belly  bore. 

APOTHECARY. 

And  that  is  why  poor  skinny  I  have  none  at  all. 

ROMEO. 

I'm  the  resurrection-man,  of  buried  bodies  amorous. 

FALSTAFF. 

I'm  fagg'd  to  death,  and  out  of  breath,  and  am  for  quiet 
clamorous ; 


PUNCH  S   APOTHEOSIS, 


For  though  my  paunch  is  round  and  stanch,  I  ne'er 
begin  to  feel  it  ere  I 

Feel  that  I  have  no  stomach  left  for  entertainment  mili- 
tary. 


Round  let  us  bound,  for  this  is  Punch's  holiday 
Glory  to  Tomfoolery,  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

[Exeunt 


NOTES 


THE   REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 


NOTES  TO  THE  REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 


I.— LOYAL  EFFUSION. 

BY  "W.  T.  F.       [WILLIAM  THOMAS  FITZGERALD.] 
[Mr.  Fitzgerald  died  9th  July,  1829,  aged  TO.] 

"  The  first  piece,  under  the  name  of  the  loyal  Mr.  Fitzgerald, 
though  as  good  we  suppose  as  the  original,  is  not  very  interest- 
ing. Whether  it  be  very  hke  Mr.  Fitzgerald  or  not,  however,  it 
must  be  allowed  that  the  vulgarity,  serviUty,  and  gross  absurdity 
of  the  newspaper  scribblers  is  well  rendered." — Jeffrey,  Edin- 
burgh Review. 

William  Thomas  Fitzgerald.  The  annotator's  first  personal 
knowledge  of  this  gentleman  was  at  Harry  Greville's  Pic-Nic 
Theatre,  in  Tottenliam-street,  where  he  personated  Zanga  in  a 
wig  too  small  for  his  head.  The  second  time  of  seeing  him  was 
at  the  table  of  old  Lord  Dudley,  who  familiarly  called  him  Fitz, 
but  forgot  to  name  liim  in  his  will.  The  Viscount's  son  (recently 
deceased),  however,  Hberally  supplied  the  omission  by  a  donation 
of  five  thousand  pounds.  The  third  and  last  time  of  encounter- 
ing him  was  at  an  anniversary  dinner  of  the  Literary  Fund,  at 
the  Freemasons'  Tavern.  Both  parties,  as  two  of  the  stewards, 
met  their  bretln-en  in  a  small  room  about  half  an  hour  before 
dinner.  The  lampooner,  out  of  delicacy,  kept  aloof  from  the 
poet.  The  latter,  however,  made  up  to  liim,  when  the  following 
dialogue  took  place : 

Fitzgerald  (with  good  humor).     "  Mr. ,  I  mean  to  recite 

after  dinner." 

Mr. .     "  Do  you  ?" 

Fitzgerald.  "  Yes :  you  '11  have  more  of  '  God  bless  the  Re- 
gent and  the  Duke  of  York  1'  " 

The  whole  of  this  imitation,  after  a  lapse  of  twenty  years,  ap- 
17* 


394     NOTES  TO  THE  REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 

pears  to  the  Authors  too  personal  and  sarcastic ;  but  they  may 
shelter  themselves  under  a  very  broad  mantle  : 

"  Let  hoarse  Fitzgerald  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern-hall." — Byron. 

Fitzgerald  actually  sent  in  an  address  to  the  committee  on  the 
31st  of  August,  1812.  It  vp-as  jDubUshed  among  the  other  Genuine 
Rejected  Addresses,  in  one  volume,  in  that  year.  The  following  is 
an  extract : — 

"  The  troubled  shade  of  Garrick,  hovering  near, 
Dropt  on  the  burning  pile  a  pitying  tear." 

What  a  pity  that,  like  Sterne's  recording  angel,  it  did  not  suc- 
ceed in  blotting  the  fire  out  forever  I  That  failing,  why  not 
adopt  Gulliver's  remedy  ? 

1.  [jVIr.  B.  Wyatt,  architect  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  son  of 
James  Wyatt,  arcliitect  of  the  Pantheon.] 

2.  In  plain  English,  the  Halfpenny-hatch,  then  a  footway 
through  fields ;  but  now.  as  the  same  bards  sing  elsewhere — 

"St.  George's  Fields  are  fields  no  more, 

The  trowel  supersedes  the  plough  ;  ^ 

Swamps,  huge  and  inundate  of  yore. 
Are  changed  to  civic  viUas  now." 

3.  [Covent  Garden  Theatre  was  burnt  down  20th  September, 
1808 ;  Drury  Lane  Theatre  24th  February,  1809.] 

4.  [The  east  end  of  St.  James's  Palace  was  destroyed  by  fire, 
21st  January,  1809.  The  wardrobe  of  Lady  Charlotte  Finch 
(alluded  to  in  the  next  hne)  was  burnt  in  the  fire.] 

5.  [The  Honourable  William  Wellesley  Pole,  now  (1852)  Earl 
of  Momington,  married,  14th  March,  1812,  Catherine,  daughter 
and  heir  of  Sir  James  Tylney  Long,  Bart. ;  upon  which  occasion 
he  assumed  the  additional  names  of  Tylney  and  Long.] 


IL— THE  BABY'S  DEBUT. 

BY  W.  W.       [WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.] 
[Mr.  Wordsworth  died  23d  April,  1S50,  in  his  eighty-second  year.] 
"  The  Author  does  not,  in  this  instance,  attempt  to  copy  any 
of  the  higher  attributes  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry  ;  but  has  suc- 
ceeded perfectly  in  the  imitation  of  his  mawkish  affectations  of 


NOTES  TO  THE  REJECTED  ADDRESSES.     395 

childish  simplicity  and  nursery  stammering.  Wc  liopo  it  will 
make  him  ashamed  of  his  Alice  Fell,  and  the  greater  part  of  his 
last  volumes — of  which  it  is  by  no  means  a  parody,  bat  a  very 
fair,  and  indeed  Ave  think  a  flattering,  imitation." — Jeffrey, 
Edinburgh  Review. 

1.  Jack  and  Nancy,  as  it  was  afterwards  remarked  to  the  Au- 
thors, are  here  made  to  come  into  the  world  at  periods  not  suffi- 
ciently remote.  The  writers  were  then  bachelors.  One  of  them 
[James],  unfortunately,  still  continues  so,  as  he  has  thus  recorded 
in  his  niece's  album  : 

"Should  I  seek  Hymen's  tie. 

As  a  poet  I  die — 
Ye  Benedicks,  mourn  my  distresses  I 

For  what  little  fame 

Is  annexed  to  my  name 
Is  derived  from  Rejected  Addresses." 

The  blunder,  notwithstanding,  remains  unrectificd.  The  reader 
of  poetry  is  always  dissatisfied  with  emendations :  they  sound 
discordantly  upon  the  ear,  like  a  modern  song,  by  Bishop  or 
Braham,  introduced  in  Love  in  a  Village. 

2.  This  alludes  to  the  Young  Betty  mania.  The  writer  was  in 
the  stage-box  at  the  height  of  this  young  gentleman's  popularity. 
One  of  the  other  occupants  offered,  in  a  loud  voice,  to  prove 
that  young  Betty  did  not  understand  Shakespeare.  "  Silence  1" 
was  the  cry  ;  but  he  still  proceeded.  "  Turn  him  out !"  was  the 
next  ejaculation.  He  still  vociferated,  "  He  does  not  understand 
Shakespeare  ;"  and  was  consequently  shouldered  into  the  lobby. 
"  I  '11  prove  it  to  you,"  said  the  critic  to  the  door-keeper.  "  Prove 
what,  sir  ?"  "  That  he  does  not  understand  Shakespeare."  This 
was  MoUere's  housemaid  with  a  vengeance  ! 

Young  Betty  may  now  [1833]  be  seen  walking  about  town — a 
portly  personage,  aged  about  forty — clad  in  a  furred  and  frogged 
surtout ;  probably  muttering  to  himself  (as  he  has  been  at  col- 
lege), "  0  mUii  prseteritos  I"  &c.  [He  is  still  alive,  1852.  Master 
Betty,  or  "  The  young  Roscius,"  was  born  in  1791,  and  made  his 
first  appearance  on  a  London  stage  as  Achmet  in  "  Barbarossa," 
at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  on  the  first  of  December,  1804.  He 
was,  therefore,  "  not  quite  thirteen."     He  lasted  two  seasons.] 


396  NOTES   TO    THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 


IIL—AN  ADDRESS  WITHOUT  A  PHGENIX 

BY  S.  T.  P. 
For  an  account  of  this  anonymous  gentleman,  see  Preface. 

1.  [A  "  Phoenix"  was  perhaps  excusable.  The  first  Theatre  in 
Drury  Lane  was  called  "  I'he  Cock-pit  or  Phoenix  Theatre." 
Whitbread  himself  wrote  an  address,  it  is  said,  for  the  occasion ; 
like  the  others,  it  had  of  course  a  Phoenix.  "  But  "Wliitbread," 
said  Sheridan,  "  made  more  of  the  bird  than  any  of  them ;  he 
entered  into  particulars,  and  described  its  wings,  beak,  tail,  &c. ; 
in  short,  it  was  a  poulterer's  description  of  a  Phoemx."] 


IY._CUI  BONO  ? 

BY   LORD   B.      [lord   BYRON.] 
[Lord  Byron  died  19th  April,  1824,  in  his  thirty-seventh  year.] 

"  The  author  has  succeeded  better  in  copying  the  melody  and 
misanthropic  sentiments  of  Childe  Harold,  than  the  nervous  and 
impetuous  diction  in  which  his  noble  biographer  has  embodied 
them.  The  attempt,  however,  indicates  very  considerable  power ; 
and  the  flow  of  the  verse  and  the  construction  of  the  poetical 
period  are  imitated  with  no  ordinary  skUl." — Jeffrey,  Edinhurgh 
Review. 

1.  This  would  seem  to  show  that  poet  and  prophet  are  syno- 
nymous, the  noble  bard  having  afterwards  returned  to  England, 
and  again  quitted  it,  under  domestic  circumstances  painfully  no- 
torious. His  good-humored  forgiveness  of  the  Authors  has 
already  been  alluded  to  in  the  preface.  Notliiug  of  tliis  illustrious 
poet,  however  trivial,  can  be  otherwise  than  interesting.  "  We 
knew  him  well."  At  Mr.  Murray's  dinner-table  the  annotator 
met  him  and  Sir  John  Malcolm,  Lord  Byron  talked  of  intend- 
ing to  travel  in  Persia.  "  What  must  I  do  when  I  set  off?" 
said  he  to  Sir  John.  "  Cut  off  your  buttons !"  "  My  buttons  I 
what,  these  metal  ones  ?"  "  Yes  ;  the  Persians  are  in  the  main 
very  honest  fellows ;  but  if  you  go  thus  bedizened,  you  will  in- 
falUbly  be  murdered  for  your  buttons  I"     At  a  dinner  at  Monk 


NOTES  TO   THE   REJECTED    ADDRESSES.  397 

Lewis's  cluunbers  in  the  Albany,  Lord  Byron  expressed  to  the 
•writer  his  determination  not  to  go  there  again,  adding,  "  I  never 
will  dine  with  a  middle-aged  man  who  fills  up  his  table  with 
young  ensigns,  and  has  looking-glass  panels  to  his  book-cases." 
Lord  Byron,  when  one  of  the  Drury-lane  Committee  of  Manage- 
ment, challenged  the  writer  to  sing  alternately  (like  the  swains 
in  Virgil)  the  praises  of  Mrs.  Mardyn.  the  actress,  who,  by  the 
byo,  was  hissed  off  the  stage  for  an  imputed  intimacy  of  which 
slie  was  quite  innocent. 
The  contest  ran  as  follows : 

"  Wake,  muse  of  fire,  your  ardent  lyre, 

Pour  forth  your  amorous  ditty. 
But  first  profound,  in  duty  bound, 

Applaud  tlie  new  comniittpe  ; 
Their  scenic  art  from  Thcspis'  cart 

All  jaded  nags  discarding, 
To  London  drove  this  queen  of  love. 

Enchanting  Sirs.  Mardyn. 

Though  tides  of  love  around  her  rove, 

I  fear  she'll  choose  Pactolus — 
In  that  bright  surge  bards  ne'er  immerge. 

So  I  must  e'en  swim  solus. 
'  Out,  out,  alas  1'  ill-fated  gas. 

That  shin'st  round  Covent  Garden, 
Thy  ray  how  flat,  compared  with  that 

From  eye  of  Mrs.  Mardyn  I" 

And  so  on.  The  reader  has,  no  doubt,  already  discovered 
"  which  is  the  justice,  and  which  is  the  tliief." 

Lord  Byron  at  that  time  wore  a  very  narrow  cravat  of  white 
sarsnet,  with  the  shirt-collar  falUng  over ;  a  black  coat  and  waist- 
coat, and  very  broad  white  trousers,  to  liide  his  lame  foot — 
these  were  of  Russia  duck  in  the  morning  and  jean  in  the  even- 
ing. His  watcli-chain  had  a  numl^cr  of  small  gold  seals  appended 
to  it,  and  was  looped  up  to  a  button  of  his  waistcoat.  His  face 
was  void  of  colour  ;  he  wore  no  whiskers.  His  eyes  were  grey, 
fringed  witih  long  black  lashes ;  and  his  air  was  imposing,  but 
rather  supercUious.  He  undervalued  David  Hume ;  denying 
his  claim  to  genius  on  account  of  his  bulk,  and  calling  him,  from 
the  Heroic  Epistle, 

"The  fattest  hog  in  Epicurus'  sty." 

One  of  this  extraordinary  man's  allegations  was,  that  "  fat  is  an 
oily  dropsy."     To  stave  off  its  visitation,  he  frequently  chewed 


398  NOTES   TO   THE   REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

tobacco  in  lieu  of  dinner,  alleging  that  it  absorbed  the  gastric 
juice  of  the  stomach,  and  prevented  hunger.  "  Pass  your  hand 
down  my  side,"  said  his  lordship  to  the  writer ;  "  can  you  count 
my  ribs  ?"     "  Every  one  of  them."     "  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you 

say  so.     I  called  last  week  on  Lady ;  '  Ah,  Lord  Byron,' 

said  she,  '  how  fat  you  grow !'     But  you  know  Lady is 

fond  of  saying  spiteful  tilings!"  Let  this  gossip  be  summed  up 
with  the  words  of  Lord  Chesterfield,  in  his  character  of  Boling- 
broke :  "Upon  the  whole,  on  a  survey  of  this  extraordinary 
character,  what  can  we  say,  but  '  Alas,  poor  human  nature  I'  " 

His  favourite  Pope's  description  of  man  is  apphcable  to  Byron 
isdividually : 

"  Chaos  of  thougM  and  passion  all  confused, 
Still  by  himself  abused  or  disabused ; 
Created  part  to  rise  and  part  to  fall, 
Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  slave  to  all ; 
Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled — 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world." 

The  writer  never  heard  liim  allude  to  his  deformed  foot  except - 
upon  one  occasion,  when,  entering  the  green-room  of  Drury-lane, 
he  found  Lord  Byron  alone,  the  younger  Byrne  and  Miss  Smith 
the  dancer  having  just  left  him,  after  an  angry  conference  about 
a  pas  seul.  "  Had  you  been  a  here  a  minute  sooner,"  said  Lord 
B.,  "  you  would  have  heard  a  question  about  dancing  referred  to 
me ; — ^me !  (looking  mournfully  downward)  whom  fate  from  my 
birth  has  prohibited  from  taldng  a  single  step." 

2.  [The  first  stanza  (see  Preface)  was  written  by  James  Smith ; 
the  remainder  by  Horace.] 

3.  "  Holland's  edifice."  The  late  theatre  was  built  by  Holland 
the  arcliitect.  The  writer  \asited  it  on  the  night  of  its  opening 
[April  21,  1794].  The  performances  were  Macbeth  and  the  Vir- 
gin Unmasked.  Between  the  play  and  the  farce,  an  excellent 
epilogue,  written  by  George  Colman,  was  excellently  spoken  by 
Miss  Farren.  It  referred  to  the  iron  curtain  which  was,  in  the 
event  of  fire,  to  be  let  down  between  the  stage  and  the  audience, 
and  which  accordingly  descended,  by  way  of  experiment,  leaving 
Miss  Farren  between  the  lamps  and  the  curtain.  The  fair  speaker 
informed  the  audience,  that  should  the  fire  break  out  on  the  stage 
(where  it  usually  originates),  it  would  thus  be  kept  from  the 
spectators ;  adding,  with  great  solemnity — 

"  No  I  we  assure  our  generous  benefactors 
'Twill  only  burn  the  scenery  and  the  actors." 


NOTES  TO   THE   REJECTED    ADDRESSES.  399 

A  tank  of  water  was  afterwards  exhibited,  in  the  course  of  the 
epilogue,  in  which  a  wheiTy  was  rowed  by  a  real  hvc  man,  the 
band  playing — 

'•  And  did  you  not  hear  of  a  jolly  young  waterman  ?" 

Miss  Farron  reciting — 

"  Sit  Btill,  there 's  nothing  in  it, 
"We  '11  undertake  to  drown  you  in  a  single  minute." 

"  0  vain  thought  I"  as  Othello  says.  Notwithstanding  the  boast 
in  the  epilogue — 

"  Blow,  wind — come  rack,  in  ages  yet  unljorn, 
Our  castle's  strength  shall  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn" — 

the  theatre  fell  a  victim  to  the  flames  witliin  fifteen  years  from 
the  prognostic  I  These  preparations  against  fire  always  presup- 
pose presence  of  mind  and  promptness  in  those  who  are  to  put 
them  into  action.  They  remind  one  of  the  dialogue  in  Morton's 
Speed  the  Plough,  between  Sir  Able  Handy  and  liis  son  Bob  : 

"  Boh.  Zounds,  the  castle's  on  fire ! 

Sir  A.  Yes. 

Bob.  Where 's  your  patent  Uquid  for  extinguishing  fire  ? 

Sir  A.  It  is  not  mixed. 

Boh.  Then  where  's  your  patent  fire-escape  ? 

Sir  A.  It  is  not  fixed. 

Boh.  You  are  never  at  a  loss  ? 

Sir  A.  Never. 

Boh.  Then  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ? 

Sir  A.  I  don't  know." 

4.  A  rather  obscure  mode  of  expression  for  Jews' -harp  ;  which 
some  etymologists  allege,  by  the  way,  to  be  a  corruption  of 
t/aws'-harp.     No  connection,  therefore,  with  King  David. 


v.— HAMPSHIRE  FARMER'S  ADDRESS. 

BY    W.    C.       [WILLIAM    COBBETT.] 
[Mr.  Cobbett  died  ISth  Jnnc,  1835,  aged  seventy-three.] 

1.  [The  Weekly  Register,  which  he  kept  up  without  the  fail- 
ure of  a  single  week  from  its  first  pubUcation  till  his  death — a 
period  of  above  thirty-three  years.] 


400  NOTES    TO    THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

2.  Bagshaw.     At  that  time  the  publisher  of  Cobbett's  Register. 

3.  The  old  Lyceum  Theatre,  pulled  down  by  Mr.  Arnold. 
That  since  destroyed  by  fire  [16th  Feb.,  1830],  was  erected  on  its 
site.  [The  Drury  Lane  Company  performed  at  the  Lyceum  till 
the  house  was  rebuilt.] 

4.  [The  present  colonnade  in  Little  Eussell  Street  formed  no 
part  of  the  original  design ;  and  was  erected  only  a  few  years 
back.] 

5.  An  allusion  to  a  murder  then  recently  committed  on  Barnes 
Terrace.  [The  murder  (22d  July,  1812)  of  the  Count  and 
Countess  DAntraigues  (distantly  related  to  the  Bourbons)  by  a 
servant  out  of  hvery  of  the  name  of  Laurence — an  ItaUan  or  Pied- 
montese  ;  who  made  away  with  himself  immediately  after.] 

6.  At  that  time  keeper  of  Newgate.  The  present  superintend- 
ent (1833)  is  styled  governor ! 

7.  A  portentous  one  that  made  its  appearance  in  the  year 
1811 ;  in  the  midst  of  the  war, 

"  "With  fear  of  change  perplexing  nations." 


YL— THE  LIYIXG  LUSTEES. 

BY    T.    M.       [THOMAS    MOORE.] 
[Mr.  Moore  died  2Ctli  February,  1852,  ia  Us  sevenfy-thii-d  year.] 

"  The  Living  Lustres  appears  to  us  a  very  fair  imitation  of  the 
fantastic  verses  which  that  ingenious  person,  Mr.  Moore,  indites 
when  he  is  merely  gallant,  and,  resisting  the  lures  of  voluptuous- 
ness, is  not  enough  in  earnest  to  be  tender." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh 
Review. 

1.  Tliis  alludes  to  two  massive  pillars  of  vcrd  antique  which 
then  flanked  the  proscenium,  but  wloich  have  since  been  removed. 
Their  colour  reminds  the  bard  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  and  this 
causes  him  {more  suo)  to  fly  off  at  a  tangent,  and  Hibernicise  the 
rest  of  the  poem. 


NOTES   TO   TUE   REJECTED    ADDRESSES.  401 


YIL— THE  EEBUILDING. 

BY  R.  S.  [ROBERT  SOUTHEY.] 
[Jlr.  Southey  died  March  13,  1S43,  in  his  sixty-ninth  year.] 
"  Tlie  Rehuilding  is  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Southey,  and  is  one  of 
the  best  in  the  collection.  It  is  in  tlie  style  of  the  Kehama  of 
that  multifarious  author,  and  is  supposed  to  be  spoken  in  the 
character  of  one  of  liis  Glendoveers.  The  imitation  of  the  dic- 
tion and  measure,  -we  think,  is  nearly  almost  perfect ;  and  the 
descriptions  as  good  as  the  original.  It  opens  with  an  account 
of  the  burning  of  the  old  theatre,  formed  upon  the  pattern  of 
the  Funeral  of  Arvalan." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review. 

1.  For  the  Glendoveer,  and  the  rest  of  the  dramatis  personce 
of  tills  imitation,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama." 

2.  This  couplet  was  introduced  by  the  Authors  by  way  of 
bravado,  in  answer  to  one  who  alleged  that  the  English  language 
contained  no  rhyme  to  chimney. 

3.  Apollo.  A  gigantic  wooden  figure  of  tliis  deity  was  erected 
on  the  roof.  The  writer  (Jwrrescit  referensl)  is  old  enough  to 
recollect  the  time  when  it  was  first  placed  there.  Old  Bishop, 
then  one  of  the  masters  of  Merchant  Tailors'  School,  wrote  an 
epigram  upon  the  occasion,  which,  referring  to  the  aforesaid 
figure,  concluded  thus : 

"Above  he  fills  up  Shakespeare's  place, 
And  Shakespeare  fills  up  his  below." 

Yery  antithetical ;  but  qucere  as  to  the  meaning  ?  The  writer, 
hke  Pluto,  "long  puzzled  his  brain"  to  find  it  out,  till  he  was 
immersed  "  in  a  lower  deep"  by  hearing  Madame  de  Stael  say, 
at  the  table  of  the  late  Lord  Dillon,  "  Buonaparte  is  not  a  man, 
but  a  system."  Inquiry  was  made  in  the  course  of  the  evening 
of  Sir  James  ilackintosh  as  to  what  the  lady  meant.  He  an- 
swered, "  Mass !  I  cannot  tell."  Madame  de  Stael  repeats  this 
apopthegm  in  her  work  on  Germany.  It  is  probably  understood 
there. 

4.  0.  P.  This  personage,  who  is  alleged  to  have  growled  like 
a  buU-dog,  requires  rather  a  lengthened  note,  for  the  edification 
of  the  rising  generation.  The  "horns,  rattles,  drums,"  with 
which  he  is  accompanied,  are  no  inventions  of  the  poet.     The 


402  NOTES   TO   THE   REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

new  Covent  Garden  Theatre  opened  on  the  18th  September, 
1809,  when  a  cry  of"  Old  Prices"  (afterwards  dkninished  to  0. 
P.)  burst  out  from  every  part  of  the  house.  This  continued  and 
increased  in  violence  until  the  23rd,  when  rattles,  drums,  wliistles, 
and  cat-calls,  having  completely  drowned  the  voices  of  the  actors, 
Mr.  Kemble,  the  stage-manager,  came  forward,  and  said,  that  a 
committee  of  gentlemen  had  undertaken  to  examine  the  finances 
of  the  concern,  and  that  until  they  were  prepared  with  their  re- 
port, the  theatre  would  continue  closed.  "Name  them!"  was 
shouted  from  all  sides.  The  names  were  declared,  viz.,  Sir  Charles 
Price,  the  SoUcitor-General,  the  Eecorder  of  London,  the  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Bank,  and  Mr.  Angerstein.  "  All  shareholders !" 
bawled  a  wag  from  the  gallery.  In  a  few  days  the  theatre  re- 
opened :  the  pubUc  paid  no  attention  to  the  report  of  the  ref- 
erees, and  the  tumult  was  renewed  for  several  weeks  with  even 
increased  violence.  The  proprietors  now  sent  in  liired  bruisers 
to  miU  the  refractory  into  subjection.  This  irritated  most  of  their 
former  friends,  and,  amongst  the  rest,  the  annotator,  who  accord- 
ingly wrote  the  song  of  "  Heigh-ho,  says  Kemble,"  wliich  was 
caught  up  by  the  ballad-singers,  and  sung  under  Mr.  Kemble's 
house-windows  in  Great  Eussell-street.  A  dinner  was  given  at 
the  Crown  and  Anchor  Tavern  in  the  Strand,  to  celebrate  the 
victory  obtained  by  "W.  Clifford  in  his  action  against  Brandon 
the  bos-keeper,  for  assaulting  liim  for  wearing  the  letters  0.  P. 
in  his  hat.  At  this  dinner  Mr.  Kemble  attended,  and  matters 
were  compromised  by  allowing  the  advanced  price  (seven  shil- 
lings) to  the  boxes.  The  writer  remembers  a  former  riot  of  a 
similar  sort  at  the  same  theatre  (in  the  year  1782),  when  the 
price  to  the  boxes  was  raised  from  five  shillings  to  six.  That 
tumult,  however,  only  lasted  three  nights. 

5.  "  From  the  Icnobb'd  bludgeon  to  the  taper  switch."  This 
image  is  not  the  creation  of  the  poets :  it  sprang  from  reality. 
The  Authors  happened  to  be  at  the  Eoyal  Circus  when  "  God 
save  the  King"  was  called  for,  accompanied  by  a  cry  of  "  Stand 
up!"  and  "Hats  off!"  An  inebriated  naval  heutenant,  perceiv- 
ing a  gentleman  in  an  adjoining  box  slow  to  obey  the  call,  struck 
his  hat  off  with  his  stick,  exclaiming,  "  Take  off  your  hat,  sir  1" 
The  other  thus  assaulted  proved  to  be,  unluckily  for  the  heute- 
nant, Lord  Camelford,  the  celebrated  bruiser  and  duellist.  A 
set-to  in  the  lobby  was  the  consequence,  where  his  lordship 


NOTES  TO   THE   REJECTED   ADDRESSES.  403 

quiclcly  proved  victorious.  "  The  devil  is  not  so  black  as  he  is 
painted,"  said  one  of  the  Authors  to  the  other ;  "  let  us  call  upon 
Lord  Canielford,  and  tell  him  that  we  were  witnesses  of  his  being 
first  assaulted."  The  visit  was  paid  on  tlie  ensuing  morning  at 
Lord  Camelford's  lodgings,  in  Bond-street.  Over  the  lire-place 
in  the  drawing-room  were  ornaments  strongly  expressive  of  the 
pugnacity  of  the  peer.  A  long  thick  bludgeon  lay  horizontally 
supported  by  two  brass  hooks.  Above  this  was  placed  parallel 
ones  of  lesser  dimensions,  untU  a  pyramid  of  weapons  gradually 
arose,  tapering  to  a  horsewhip : 

"  Thus  all  below  was  strength,  and  all  above  was  grace." 

Lord  Camelford  received  his  visitants  with  great  civility,  and 
thanked  them  warmly  for  the  call ;  adding,  that  their  evidence 
would  be  material,  it  being  his  intention  to  indict  the  heutenant 
for  an  assault.  "  All  I  can  say  in  return  is  this,"  exclaimed  the 
peer  with  great  cordiality,  "  if  ever  I  see  you  engaged  in  a  row, 
upon  my  soul,  I  '11  stand  by  you."  The  Authors  expressed  them- 
selves thankful  for  so  potent  an  ally,  and  departed.  In  about  a 
fortnight  afterwards  [March  7,  1804]  Lord  Camelford  was  shot  in 
a  duel  with  Mr.  Best. 

6.  Veeshnoo.     The  late  Mr.  Wliitbread. 

7.  Levy.  An  insolvent  Israelite  who  [18th  January,  1810] 
threw  himself  from  the  top  of  the  Monument  a  short  time  before. 
An  inhabitant  of  Monument-yard  informed  the  writer,  that  he 
happened  to  be  standing  at  his  door  talking  to  a  neighbour ;  and 
looking  up  at  the  top  of  the  pillar,  exclaimed,  "  Why,  here  's  the 
flag  coming  down."  "  Flag  !"  answered  the  other,  "  it 's  a  man  I" 
The  words  were  hardly  uttered  when  the  suicide  fell  within  ten 
feet  of  the  speakers, 


VIII.— DRURY'S  DIRGE. 

BY    LAURA    MATILDA. 


'■ '  Drury's  Dirge,'  by  Laura  ilutdda,  is  not  of  the  first  quality. 
The  verses,  to  be  sure,  are  very  smooth  and  very  nonsensical — 
as  was  intended ;  but  they  are  not  so  good  as  Swift's  celebrated 
Song  by  a  Person  of  QuaUty ;  and  are  so  exactly  in  the  samo 


404  NOTES   TO   THE   REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

measure,  and  on  the  same  plan,  that  it  is  impossible  to  avoid 
making  the  comparison." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review. 

1.  The  Authors,  as  in  gallantry  bound,  wish  this  lady  to  con- 
tinue anonymous. 


IX.— A  TALE  OF  DRURY  LANE. 

BY  W.  S.       [sir  WALTER    SCOTT.] 
[Sir  Walter  Scott  died  21st  September,  1832,  in  his  Bisty-seeond  year.] 

"From  the  parody  ofWalter  Scott  we  know  not  what  to  select 
— it  is  all  good.  The  effect  of  the  fire  on  the  town,  and  the  de- 
scription of  a  fireman  in  liis  ofJQcial  apparel,  may  be  quoted  as 
amusing  specimens  of  the  misapplication  of  the  style  and  metre 
of  Mr.  Scott's  admirable  romances." — Quarterly  Review. 

"  '  A  Tale  of  Drury,'  by  Walter  Scott,  is,  upon  the  whole,  ad- 
mirably executed ;  though  the  introduction  is  rather  tame.  The 
burning  is  described  with  the  mighty  minstrel's  characteristic  love 
of  locaUties  .  .  .  The  catastrophe  is  described  with  a  spirit  not 
unworthy  of  the  name  so  venturously  assumed  by  the  describer." 
— Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Revieiv. 

1.  Sir  Walter  Scott  informed  the  annotator,  that  at  one  time 
he  intended  to  print  his  collected  works,  and  had  pitched  upon 
tliis  identical  quotation  as  a  motto ; — a  proof  that  sometimes  great 
wits  jump  with  httle  ones. 

2.  Alluding  to  the  then  great  distance  between  the  picture- 
frame,  in  wliich  the  green  curtain  was  set,  and  the  band.  For  a 
justification  of  tliis,  see  below — "  Dr.  Johnson." 

3.  [The  old  name  for  London : 

For  poets  you  can  never  want  'em 

Spread  through.  Augusta  Trinobantum. — Swift. 

Thomson  in  his  "  Seasons"  calls  it  "  huge  Augusta."] 

4.  Old  Bedlam,  at  that  time,  stood  "  close  by  London  Wall." 
It  was  built  after  the  model  of  the  Tuileries,  which  is  said  to 
have  given  the  French  king  great  offence.  In  front  of  it 
Moorfields  extended,  with  broad  gravel  wallcs  crossing  each 
other  at  right  angles.     These  the  writer  well  recollects;    a,nd 


NOTES    TO   THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES.  405 

Rivaz,  an  undenvritor  at  Lloj^d's,  has  told  liim,  that  he  remem- 
bered when  the  merchants  of  London  would  parade  these  walks 
on  a  summer  evening  with  their  wives  and  daughter?,  but  now, 
as  a  punning  brother  bard  sings, 

"  Moorficlds  arc  fields  no  more." 

5.  [A  narrow  passage  immediately  adjoining  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  and  so  called  from  the  Vineyard  attached  to  Covent  or 
Convent  Garden.] 

6.  [The  Hand-in-hand  Insurance  Office  was  one  of  the  very 
first  insurance  offices  established  in  London.  To  make  the  engi- 
neer of  the  office  thus  early  in  the  race,  is  a  piece  of  liistorical 
accuracy  intended,  it  is  said,  on  the  part  of  the  writer.] 

7.  "Whitbread's  shears.  An  economical  experiment  of  that 
gentleman.  The  present  portico,  towards  Bridges  Street,  was 
afterwards  erected  under  the  lesseeship  of  EUiston,  whose  por- 
trait in  the  Exhibition  was  thus  noticed  in  the  Examiner:  "Por- 
trait of  the  great  Lessee,  in  his  favourite  character  of  ]Mr.  El- 
liston." 


X.— JOHN'SON'S  GHOST. 


"  Samuel  Johnson  is  not  so  good :  the  measure  and  solemnity 
of  his  sentences,  in  all  the  limited  variety  of  their  structure,  are 
indeed  imitated  with  singular  skill :  but  the  diction  is  caricatured 
in  a  vulgar  and  unpleasing  degree.  To  make  Johnson  call  a 
door  '  a  ligneous  barricado,'  and  its  knocker  and  bell  its  '  frappant 
and  tintinnubulant  appendages,'  is  neither  just  nor  humorous; 
and  we  are  surprised  that  a  writer  who  has  given  such  extraor- 
dinary proofs  of  his  talent  for  finer  ridicule  and  fairer  imitation, 
should  have  stooped  to  a  vein  of  pleasantry  so  low,  and  so  long 
ago  exhausted;  especially  as,  in  other  passages  of  the  same 
piece,  he  has  sho\vn  how  well  qualified  he  was  both  to  catch  and 
to  remler  the  true  characteristics  of  his  original.  The  beginning, 
for  example,  we  think  excellent." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review. 

1.  The  celebratad  Lord  Cliesterfield,  whose  letters  to  his  Son, 
according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  inculcate  "  the  manners  of  a  dancing 
master  and  tlie  morals  of  a  — ,"  &c. 

2.  Lord  Mayor  of  the  theatric  sky.  This  alludes  to  Leigh  Hunt, 
who,  in  The  Examiner,  at  tliis  time  kept  tlie  actors  in  hot  water. 


406  NOTES   TO   THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

Dr.  Johnson's  argument  is,  like  many  of  his  other  arguments, 
specious,  but  untenable ;  that  which  it  defends  has  since  been 
abandoned  as  impracticable.  Mr.  Whitbread  contended  that  the 
actor  was  Uke  a  portrait  in  a  picture,  and  accordingly  placed  the 
green  curtain  in  a  gilded  frame  remote  from  the  foot-Ughts ;  al- 
leging that  no  performer  should  mar  the  illusion  by  stepping  out 
of  the  frame.  Dowton  was  the  first  actor  who,  like  Manfred's 
ancestor  in  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  took  the  hberty  of  abandoning 
the  canon.  "Don't  tell  me  of  frames  and  pictures,"  ejaculated 
the  testy  comedian ;  "  if  I  can't  be  heard  by  the  audience  in 
the  frame,  I  '11  walk  out  of  it  I"  The  proscenium  has  since  been 
new-modelled,  and  the  actors  thereby  brought  nearer  to  the 
audience. 


XL— THE   BEAUTIFUL   INCENDIARY. 

BY  THE   HON.  W.  S. 

[William  Robert  Spencer.  The  best  writer  of  vers  de  sociite 
in  our  time.  He  died  at  Paris  in  October,  1834,  aged  65 ;  and 
his  poems  were  pubhshed  in  London  the  next  year  in  one 
volume,  12mo.] 

" '  The  Beautiful  Incendiary,'  by  the  Honourable  W.  Spencer, 
is  also  an  imitation  of  great  merit.  The  flashy,  fashionable,  arti- 
ficial style  of  this  writer,  with  liis  confident  and  extravagant  com- 
pliments, can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  parodied  in  such  lines." — 
Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review. 

1.  Sobriety,  &c.  The  good  humour  of  the  poet  upon  occasion 
of  this  parody  has  been  noticed  in  the  Preface.  "  It 's  all  very 
well  for  once,"  said  he  afterwards,  in  comic  confidence,  at  his 
vUla  at  Petersham,  "  but  do  n't  do  it  again.  I  had  been  almost 
forgotten  when  you  revived  me ;  and  now  all  the  newspapers 
and  reviews  ring  with  "  this  fashionable,  trashy  author.' "  The 
sand  and  "  filings  of  glass,"  mentioned  in  the  last  stanza,  are 
referable  to  the  well-known  verses  of  the  poet  apologising  to  a 
lady  for  having  paid  an  unconscionably  long  morning  visit ;  and 
where,  alluding  to  Time,  he  says, 

"All  his  sands  arc  dianiond  sparks, 
That  glitter  as  they  pass." 


NOTES  TO   THE   REJECTED   ADDRESSES.  407 

Fe-w  men  in  sociely  h;ive  more  "  gladdened  life"  than  tliis  poet. 
He  now  [1833]  resides  in  Paris,  and  may  thence  make  the  grand 
tour  without  the  aid  of  an  interpreter — speaking,  as  he  does, 
French,  Italian,  and  Gennan,  as  fluently  as  English. 

2.  [10th  of  October,  1812,  the  day  of  opening.] 

3.  Congreve's  plug.  The  late  Sir  Wilham  Congreve  had  made 
a  model  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  to  which  was  affixed  an  engine 
that,  in  the  event  of  fire,  was  made  to  play  from  the  stage  into 
every  box  in  the  house.  The  writer,  accompanied  by  Theodore 
Hook,  went  to  see  the  model  at  Sir  William's  house  in  Cecil 
Street.  "Now  I'll  duck  \Vlii thread  1"  said  Hook,  seizing  the 
water-pipe  wliilst  he  spoke,  and  sending  a  torrent  of  water  into 
the  brewer's  box. 

4.  See  Byron,  afterwards,  in  Don  Juan : — 

"  For  flesh  is  grass,  vhich  Time  mows  down  to  hay." 
But  as  Johnson  says  of  Dryden,  "  His  known  wealth  was  so 
great,  he  might  borrow  without  any  impeachment  of  his  credit." 


XII.— FIRE  AND  ALE. 

BY  M.  G.  L.  [MATTHEW  GREGOKY  LEWIS.] 
[Mr.  Lewis  died  14th  May,  1818,  in  his  forty-third  year.] 
"  '  Fire  and  Ale,'  by  M.  G-.  Lewis,  exhibits  not  only  a  faithful 
copy  of  the  spirited,  loose,  and  flowing  versification  of  that  singu- 
lar author,  but  a  very  just  representation  of  that  mixture  of 
extravagance  and  jocularity  which  has  impressed  most  of  his 
writings  with  the  character  of  a  sort  of  farcical  horror." — Jeffrey, 
Edinburgh  Review. 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  commonly  called  Monh  Lewis,  from 
his  once  popular  romance  of  that  name,  was  a  good-hearted  man, 
and,  like  too  many  of  that  fraternity,  a  disagreeable  one — verbose, 
disputatious,  and  paradoxical.  His  Monk  and  Castle  Spectre  ele- 
vated him  into  fame  ;  and  he  continued  to  -write  ghost-stories  till, 
following  as  he  did  in  the  wake  of  ^Irs.  Radcliffe,  he  quite  over- 
stocked the  market.  Lewis  visited  his  estates  in  Jamaica,  and 
came  back  perfectly  negro-bitten.  He  promulgated  a  new  code  of 
laws  in  the  island,  for  the  government  of  his  sable  subjects :  one 


408  NOTES   TO   THE    REJECTED   ADDRESSES. 

may  serve  as  a  specimen :  '•  Any  slave  who  commits  mm-der  shall 
have  his  head  shaved,  and  be  confined  three  days  and  nights  in  a 
dark  room."  Upon  occasion  of  printing  these  parodies,  Monlc 
Lewis  said  to  Lady  H[oUand],  "  Many  of  them  are  very  fah,  but 
mine  is  not  at  all  like ;  they  have  made  me  write  burlesque,  Avhich 
I  never  do."  "  You  don't  know  your  own  talent,"  answered  the 
lady. 

Lewis  aptly  described  himself,  as  to  externals,  in  the  verses 
affixed  to  his  Monlc,  as  having 

"  A  graceless  form  and  dwarfish  stature." 

He  had,  moreover,  large  grey  eyes,  thick  features,  and  an  inex- 
pressive countenance.  In  talking,  he  had  a  disagreeable  habit  of 
drawing  the  fore-finger  of  his  right  hand  across  his  right  eye-hd. 
He  affected,  in  conversation,  a  sort  of  dandified,  drawhng  tone  ; 
young  Harlowe,  the  artist,  did  the  same.  A  foreigner  who  had 
lout  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  EngUsh  language  might  have  con- 
cluded, from  their  cadences,  that  they  were  httle  better  than 
fools — "just  a  born  goose,"  as  Terry  the  actor  used  to  say. 
Lewis  died  on  his  passage  homeward  from  Jamaica,  owing  to  a 
dose  of  James's  powders  injudiciously  administered  by  "  his  own 
mere  motion."  He  vn-ote  various  plays,  with  various  success: 
he  had  admirable  notion  of  dramatic  construction,  but  the  good- 
ness of  his  scenes  and  incidents  was  marred  by  the  badness  of 
his  dialogue. 


XIIL— PLAYHOUSE  MUSINGS. 

BY  S.  T.  C.       [S.  T.  COLEKIDGEX] 
[Mr.  Coleridge  died  25th  July,  1834,  in  his  sixty-second  year.] 

"  Mr.  Coleridge  will  not,  we  fear,  be  as  much  entertained  as 
we  were  with  his  '  Playhouse  Musings,'  which  begin  with  char- 
acteristic pathos  and  simplicity,  and  put  us  much  in  mind  of  the 
affecting  story  of  old  Poulterer's  mare."  Quarterly  Review. 

"  '  Playhouse  Musings,'  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  a  piece  which  is  un- 
questionably Lakish,  though  we  cannot  say  that  we  recognise  in 
it  any  of  the  peculiar  traits  of  that  powerful  and  misdirected 
genius  whose  name  it  has  borrowed.     We  ratlier  think,  however. 


NOTES  TO    THE   REJECTED    ADDRESSES.  409 

that  tlie  tuneful  brotlierhood  will  consider  it  as  a  respectablo 
eclogue." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review. 

1.  "  He  of  Blackfriars'  Road,"  viz.,  the  late  Rev.  Rowland  Hill, 
who  is  said  to  have  preached  a  sermon  congratulating  his  con- 
gregation on  tlie  catastrophe. 

2.  "  Oh,  Air.  Whitbread  !"  Su-  William  Grant,  then  Master  of 
the  Rolls,  repeated  this  passage  aloud  at  a  Lord  Mayor's  dinner, 
to  the  no  small  astonishment  of  the  writer,  who  happened  to  sit 
within  ear-shot. 

3.  "  Padmanaba,"  viz.,  in  a  pantomime  called  Harlequin  in 
Padmanaba.  Tliis  elephant  [Chunee],  some  years  afterwards, 
was  exhibited  over  Exeter  'Change,  where,  the  reader  wiU  re- 
member, it  was  found  necessary  [March,  1826]  to  destroy  the 
poor  animal  by  discharges  of  musketry.  When  he  made  his  en- 
trance in  the  pantomime  above  mentioned,  Johnson,  the  machin- 
ist of  the  rival  house,  exclaimed,  "  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  I 
could  not  make  a  better  elephant  than  that !"  Johnson  was  right : 
we  go  to  the  theatre  to  be  pleased  with  the  skill  of  the  imitator, 
and  not  to  look  at  the  reality. 


XIV.— DRURY  LAI^E  HUSTINGS. 

A  NEW  HALFPENNY  BALLAD. 
BY  A  PIC-NIC  POET. 

" '  A  New  Halfpenny  Ballad,'  by  a  Pic-Nic  Poet,  is  a  good 
imitation  of  what  was  not  worth  imitating — that  tremendous 
mixture  of  vulgarity,  nonsense,  impudence,  and  miserable  puns, 
which,  under  the  name  of  humorous  songs,  rouses  our  polite  au- 
diences to  a  far  higher  pitch  of  rapture  than  Garrick  or  Siddons 
ever  was  able  to  inspire." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Revieio. 

1.  [Mr.  Whitbread — it  need  hardly  be  added  for  the  present 
generation  of  Londoners — was  a  celebrated  brewer.     Fifty  years 
hence,  and  the  allusion  in  the  text  may  require  a  note  which, 
perhaps,  even  now  (1851),  is  scarcely  out  of  place.] 
18 


410  NOTES    TO    THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 


XV.— ARCHITECTURAL   ATOMS. 

TRANSLATED  BY  DR.  B.   [dR.  THOMAS  BUSBT,  MUS.  DOC] 

Dr.  Busby  gave  living  recitations  of  liis  translations  of  Lucre- 
tius, V7ith  tea  and  bread-and-butter.  He  sent  in  a  real  Address 
to  the  Drury  Lane  Committee,  which  was  really  rejected.  The 
present  imitation  professes  to  be  recited  by  the  translator's  son. 
The  poet  here,  again,  was  a  prophet.  A  few  evenings  after  the 
opening  of  the  Theatre,  Dr.  Busby  sat  with  his  son  in  one  of 
the  stage-boxes.  The  latter,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  audience, 
at  the  end  of  the  play,  stepped  from  the  box  upon  the  stage, 
witli  his  father's  real  rejected  address  in  his  hand,  and  began  to 
recite  it  as  follows : — 

"  When  energising  objects  men  pursue, 
What  are  the  prodigies  they  cannot  do  ?" 

Raymond,  the  stage-manager,  accompanied  by  a  constable,  at 
this  moment  walked  upon  the  stage,  and  handed  away  the  ju- 
venile diUettante  performer. 

The  doctor's  classical  translation  was  thus  noticed  in  one  of 
the  newspapers  of  the  day,  in  tlie  column  of  births : — "  Yester- 
day at  his  house  in  Queen  Anne  Street,  Dr.  Busby  of  a  still- 
born Lucretius." 

"  In  one  single  point  the  parodist  has  failed — there  is  a  certain 
Dr.  Busby,  whose  supposed  address  is  a  translation  called  '  Archi- 
tectural Atoms,  intended  to  be  recited  by  the  translator's  son.' 
Unluckily,  however,  for  the  wag  who  had  prepared  this  fun,  the 
genuine  serious  ahsurcliiy  of  Dr.  Busby  and  his  son  has  cast  all 
the  humour  into  the  shade.  The  doctor  from  the  boxes,  and  the 
son  from  the  stage,  have  actually  endeavoured,  it  seems,  to  recite 
addresses,  which  they  call  monologues  and  unalogues;  and  which, 
for  extravagant  folly,  tumid  meanness,  and  vulgar  affectation,  set 
all  the  powers  of  parody  at  utter  defiance." —  Qum-terly  Review. 

"Of  'Architectural  Atoms,'  translated  by  Dr.  Busby,  we  can 
say  very  little  more  than  that  they  appear  to  us  to  be  far  more 
capable  of  combining  into  good  poetry  than  the  few  Hnes  we 
were  able  to  read  of  the  learned  doctor's  genuine  address  in  thj 
newspapers.  They  might  pass,  indeed,  for  a  very  tolerable  imi- 
tation of  Darwin." — Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Revieiv. 


NOTES   TO   THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES.  411 

"  1.  Winsor's  patent  gas'' — at  that  time  in  its  inlancy.  Tlie 
first  place  illumined  by  it  was  [Jan.  28th,  1807]  the  Carltou- 
house  side  of  Pall  Mall;  the  second,  Bishopsgate  Street.  The 
writer  attended  a  lecture  given  by  the  inventor :  the  charge  of 
admittance  was  three  shillings,  but,  as  the  inventor  was  about 
to  apply  to  parliament,  members  of  both  houses  were  admitted 
gratis.  The  writer  and  a  fellow-jester  assumed  the  parts  of  sen- 
ators at  a  short  notice.  "  Members  of  parliament!"  was  their 
important  ejaculation  at  the  door  of  entrance.  "  What  places, 
gentlemen  ?"  "  Old  Sarum  and  Bridgewater."  "  Walk  in,  gen- 
tlemen." Luckily,  the  real  Simon  Pures  did  not  attend.  This 
Pall  Mall  illumination  was  further  noticed  in  Horace  in  London  : 

"And  Winsot  lights,  with  flame  of  gas, 
Home,  to  King's  Place,  his  mother." 

2.  "  Ticket-nights."  This  phrase  is  probably  unintelligible  to 
the  untheatrical  portion  of  the  community,  which  may  now 
be  said  to  be  all  the  world  except  the  actors.  Ticket-nights  are 
those  whereon  the  inferior  actors  club  for  a  benefit :  each  dis- 
tributes as  many  tickets  of  admission  as  he  is  able  among  his 
friends.  A  motley  assemblage  is  the  consequence ;  and  as  each 
actor  is  encouraged  by  his  own  set,  who  are  not  in  general  play- 
going  people,  the  applause  comes  (as  Chesterfield  says  of  Pope's 
attempts  at  wit)  "  genei'ally  unseasonably,  and  too  often  unsuc- 
cessfully." 

3.  [Originally : — "Back  to  the  bottom  leaping  with  a  hound," 
altered  in  1833.] 


XYI.— THEATRICAL  ALAEM-BELL. 

BY    THE    EDITOR    OF    THE   M.  P. 

[moening  post.] 
This  journal  was,  at  the  period  in  question,  rather  remarkable 
for  the  use  of  the  figure  called  by  the  rhetoricians  catachresis. 
The  Bard  of  Avon  may  be  quoted  in  justification  of  its  adoption, 
when  he  writes  of  taking  arms  against  a  sea,  and  seeking  a 
bubble  in  the  mouth  of  a  cannon.  The  Morning  Post,  in  the 
year  1812,  congratulated  its  readers  on  having  stripped  off 
Cobbett's  mask  and  discovered  his  cloven  foot ;  adding,  that  it 
was  high  time  to  give  the  hydra-head  of  Faction  a  rap  on  the 
knuckles  I 


412  NOTES   TO    THE    REJECTED    ADDRESSES. 

XVII.— THE  THEATRE. 

BY    THE    KEy.    G.    C.       [tHE    REV.    GEORGE    CRABBE.J 
[Mr.  Crabbe  died  3rd  February,  183:1,  in  liis  eeventy-eiglith  year.] 

" '  The  Theatre,'  by  the  Rev.  G.  Crabbe,  we  rather  think,  is 
the  best  piece  in  the  collection.  It  is  an  exquisite  and  most  mas- 
teily  imitation,  not  only  of  the  peculiar  style,  but  of  the  taste, 
temper,  and  manner  of  description  of  that  most  original  author ; 
and  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  in  any  respect  a  caricature  of  that 
style  or  manner — except  in  the  excessive  profusion  of  puns  and 
verbal  jingles — which,  though  undoubtedly  to  be  ranked  among 
his  characteristics,  are  never  so  thick  sown  in  his  original  works 
as  in  this  admirable  imitation.  It  does  not  aim,  of  course,  at  any 
shadow  of  his  pathos  or  moral  sublimity,  but  seems  to  us  to  be  a 
singularly  faithful  copy  of  his  passages  of  mere  description." — 
Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review. 

The  Rev.  George  Crabbe.  The  winter's  first  interview  with 
this  poet,  who  may  be  designated  Pope  in  worsted  stockings, 
took  place  at  WiUiam  Spencer's  villa  at  Petersham,  close  to  what 
that  gentleman  called  his  gold-fish  pond,  though  it  was  scarcelj^ 
three  feet  in  diameter,  throwing  up  Sijet  (Teau  hke  a  thread.  The 
venerable  bard,  seizing  both  the  hands  of  his  satirist,  exclaimed, 
with  a  good-humoured  laugh,  "  Ah  !  my  old  enemy,  how  do  you 
do  ?"  In  the  course  of  conversation,  he  expressed  great  aston- 
ishment at  his  popularity  in  London ;  adding,  "  In  my  own  vil- 
lage they  think  nothing  of  me."  The  subject  happening  to  be 
the  inroads  of  time  upon  beauty,  the  writer  quoted  the  following 
lines : — 

"  Six  years  had  pass'd,  and  forty  ere  the  six. 
When  Time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks: 
My  locks,  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight, 
Locks  of  pure  brown,  now  felt  th'  encroaching  white ; 
Gradual  each  day  I  liked  my  horses  less. 
My  dinner  more — I  learnt  to  play  at  chess." 

"  That 's  very  good !"  cried  the  bard ; — "  whose  is  it  ?"  "  Your 
own."  "Indeed!  hali!  well,  I  had  quite  forgotten  it."  Was 
this  affectation,  or  was  it  not  ?  In  sooth,  he  seemed  to  push  sim- 
phcity  to  puerility.  This  imitation  contained  in  manuscript  the 
following  fines,  after  describing  certain  Sunday  newspaper  critics 


NOTES  TO   THE    KEJECTED    ADDRESSES.  413 

who  were  supposed  to  be  present  ut  a  new  play,  and  who  were 
rather  heated  in  tbcu'  politics : — 

"  Hard  is  the  task  who  edits — thankless  job  I 
A  Sunday  journal  for  the  factious  mob ; 
With  bitter  paragraph  and  caustic  jest, 
lie  gives  to  turbulence  the  day  of  rest; 
Condemn' d,  this  week,  rash  rancour  to  instil. 
Or  thrown  aside,  the  next,  for  one  who  will : 
Alike  undone  or  if  he  praise  or  rail 
(For  this  affects  his  safety,  that  his  sale), 
lie  sinks  at  last,  in  luckless  limbo  set. 
If  loud  for  libel,  and  if  dumb  for  debt." 

They  were,  however,  never  printed ;  being,  on  reflection,  con- 
sidered too  serious  for  the  occasion. 

It  is  not  a  little  extraordinary  that  Crabbe,  who  could  Avrite 
with  such  vigour,  should  descend  to  such  hnes  as  the  following : 

"  Something  had  happen' d  wrong  about  a  bill 
Which  was  not  drawn  with  true  mercantile  skill. 
So,  to  amend  it,  I  was  told  to  go 
And  seek  the  firm  of  Clutterbuck  and  Co." 

Surely  "  Emanuel  Jennings,"  compared  with  the  above,  rises 
to  sublimity. 

1.  [You  were  more  feeling  than  I  was,  when  you  read  the  ex- 
cellent parodies  of  the  young  men  who  wrote  the  "  Rejected 
Addresses."  There  is  a  Httle  ill-nature — and  I  take  the  liberty 
of  adding,  undeserved  ill-nature — in  their  prefatory  address  ;  but 
in  their  versification  they  have  done  me  admirably.  They  are 
extraordinary  men  ;  but  it  is  easier  to  imitate  style  than  to  fur- 
nish matter. — Cr.^bbe  (Works,  i.  vol.  Ed.,  p.  81.)] 

2.  [A  street  and  parish  in  Lime  Street  Ward,  London— chiefly 
inhabited  by  Jews.] 


XYIII.,  XIX.,  XX.— TO  THE  MANAGING  COMMITTEE 
OF  THE  NEW  DRUEY  LANE  THEATRE. 

"We  come  next  to  three  ludicrous  parodies — of  the  story  of 
Tlie  Stranger,  of  George  BarniveU,  and  of  the  dagger-scene  in 
Macbeth,  under  the  signature  of  Momus  Medlar.  They  are  as 
good,  we  think,  as  that  sort  of  thing  can  be,  and  remind  us  of  the 


414     NOTES  TO  THE  REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 

iiappier  efforts  of  Colman,  whose  less  successful  fooleries  are  pro- 
fessedly copied  in  the  last  piece  in  the  volume." — Jeffrey,  Edin- 
hurgh  Review. 

1.  [A  translation  from  Kotzebue  by  Thompson,  and  first  acted 
at  Drury  Lane,  24  March,  1798.  Mrs.  Siddons  was  famous  in 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Haller.] 

2.  [See  Percy's  Eeliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry,  vol.  iii. ; 
and  Lillo's  tragedy,  "  The  London  Merchant ;  or,  the  History  of 
George  Barnwell."     8vo.     1731.] 


XXI.— PUNCH'S  APOTHEOSIS. 

BY  T.  H. 
[Mr.  Hook  died  24tli  August,  1841,  in  his  fifty-third  year.] 

Theodore  Hook,  at  that  time  a  very  young  man,  and  the  com' 
panion  of  the  annotator  in  many  wild  frolics.  The  cleverness  of 
his  subsequent  prose  compositions  has  cast  his  early  stage  songs 
into  oblivion.  This  parody  was,  in  the  second  edition,  transferred 
from  Colman  to  Hook. 

1.  Then  Director  of  the  Opera  House. 

2.  At  that  time  the  chief  dancer  at  this  establishment. 

3.  Vauxhall  Bridge  then,  like  the  Thames  Tunnel  at  present 
[1833]  stood  suspended  in  the  middle  of  that  river. 


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